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TALES 



OF 



A TRAVELLER. 



LONDON : 

PAINTED BY TUCMAS DAVI80K, WHITEFRIABS. 



^"^ TALES 



/ 




OF 



A TRAVELLER. 



BY GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. />^^ 



/ 



I am neither your minotaure^ nor your centaure^ nor your 
satyr, nor your hysna, nor your babion, but your meer tra- 
veller, Relieve me. 

Ben Jonsok. 



IN TWO VOLUMES. 
VOL. L 




^ LONDON : 

JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE-STREET. 



1824. 



Vi 



Till': n; 


•:» Yoi 


IK 


IT i; Lie 


LllUI 


AKV 


AST';::, i 

K i 




Ml 

L 



TO THE READER. 



> 



^ WOHTHY AND DEAR READER ! 

H Hast thou ever been waylaid 

^ in the midst of a pleasant tour by some 
ft 

,st treacherous malady; thy heels tripped 

:j^ up, and thou left to coutit the tedious 

• minutes as they passed, in the solitude 

4 of an inn chamber ? If thou hast, thou 

<n wilt be able to pity me. Behold me, 

> interrupted in the course of my journey- 

ing tip the fair b^nks of the Rhine, and 



VI TO THE READER. 

laid up by indisposition in this old fron- 
tier town of Mentz. I have worn out 
every source of amusement. I know the 
sound of every clock that strikes, and 
bell that rings, in the place. I know 
to a second when to listen for the first 
tap of the Prussian drum, as it sum- 
mons the garrison to parade ; or at what 
hour to expect the distant sound of the 
Austrian military band. All these have 

grown wearisome to me, and even the 
well-known step of my doctor, as he 
slowly paces the corridor, with healing 
in the creak of his shoes, no longer 
affords an agreeable interrujption to the 
monotony of my apartment. 



For a time I attempted to beguile the 



TO THE READER. Vll 

weary hours by studying German under 
the tuition of mine hosf s pretty little 
daughter, Katrine; but I soon found 
even German had not power to charm 
a languid ear, and that the conjugating 
of ich liebe might be powerless, however 
rosy the lips which uttered it. 



I tried to read, but my mind would 
not fix itself; I turned over volume 
after volume, but threw them by with 
distaste: "Well, then,'' said I at length 
in despair, " if I cannot read a book, 
I will write one/' Never was there a 
more lucky idea; it at once gave me 
occupation and amusement* 

The writing of a book was considered, 



» • • 



Tin TO THE R£AD£&. 

in old times, as an enterprise of toil 
and difficulty, insomuch that the most 
trifling lucubration was denominated a 
^ work,'^ and the world talked with awe 
and reverence of " the labours of the 
learned/' These matters are better un- 
derstood nowadays. Thanks to the im- 
provements in all kind of manufactures, 
the art of book-making has been made 
familiar to the meanest capacity. Every 
body is an author. The scribbling of a 
quarto is the mere pastime of the idle ; 
the young gentleman throws off his 
brace of duodecimos in the intervals 
of the sporting season, and the young 
lady produces her set of volumes with 
the same facility that her great grand- 
mother worked a set of chair-bottoms. 



TO THE R£ADSR. |x 

The idea having struok the, therefore^ 
to write a book, the reader will easily 
perceive that the execution of it was no 
difficult matter. I rummaged my port^ 
folio, and cast about, in my recollect 
tion, for those floating materials which 
a man naturally collects in travelling; 
and here I have arranged them in this 
little work. 



As I know this to be a storyrtelling 
and a story-reading age, and that the 
world is fond of being taught by apo- 
logue, I have digested the instruction I 
would convey into a number of tales. 
They may not possess the power of 
amusement which the tales told by many 
of my contemporaries possess ; but then 



X TO THE READER. 

I value myself on the sound moral which 
each of them contains. This may not 
be apparent at first, but the reader will 
be sure to find it out in the end. I am 
for curing the world by gentle altera- 
tives, not by violent doses ; indeed the 
patient should never be conscious that 
he is taking a dose. I have learnt 
this much from my experience under 
the hands of the worthy Hippocrates of 
Mentz. 



1 am not, therefore, for those bare- 
faced tales which carry their moral on 
the surface, staring one in the face; 
they are enough to deter the squeamish 
reader. On the contrary, 1 have often 
hid my moral from sight, and disguised it 



TO THE READER. XI 

as much as possible by sweets and spices, 
so that while the simple reader is listen- 
ing with open mouth to a ghost or a 
love story, he may have a bolus of sound 
morality popped down his throat, and 
be never the wiser for the fraud. 



As the public is apt to be curious 
about the sources from whenca an au- 
thor draws his stories, doubtless that it 
may know how far to put faith in them, 

« 

I would observe, that the Adventure of 
the German Student, or rather the latter 
part of it, is • founded on an anecdote 
related to me as existing somewhere in 
French ; and, indeed, I have been told, 
since writing it, that an ingenious tale 
has been founded on it by an English 



Xll / TO THE READER. 

Mrritet ; but I have nevef met with either 
the former or the latter in print. Some 
of the circumstances in the Adventure 
of the Mysterious Picture^ and in the 
Story of the Young Italian, are vague 
recollections of anecdotes related to me 
some years since ; but from what source 
derived I do not know. The Adven- 
ture of the Young Painter among the 
banditti is taken almost entirely from 
an authentic narrative in manuscript. 



As to the other tales contained in this 
work, and, indeed^ to my tales gene- 
rally, I can make but one observation. 
I ata an old traveller. I have read 
sodiewhat^ heard and seen more, and 
dreamt more than all. My brain is 



TO THE KHAPEIl. XIU 

filled, therefore, with all kinds of odds 
and ends. In travelling, these hetero- 
geneous matters have become shaken 
up in my mind, as the articles are apt 
to be in an ill-packed travellingrtrunk ; 
so that when I attempt to draw forth a 
fact, I cannot determine whether I have 
read, heard, or dreamt it; and I am 
always at a loss to know how much to 
believe of my own stories. 



These matters being premised, fall to, 
worthy reader, with good appetite, and, 
above all, with good humour, to what is 
here set before thee. If the tales I have 
furnished should prove to be bad, they 
will at least be found short ; so that no 
one will be wearied long on the same 



XIV TO THE READER. 

theme. " Variety is charming/' as some 
poet observes. There is a certain relief 
in change, even though it be from bad 
to worse ; as 1 have found in travelling 
in a stage coach, that it is often a 
comfort to shift one's position and be 
bruised in a new place. 

Ever thine, 
GEOFFREY CRAYON. 



Dated from the Hotel de Darmstadt^ 

ci-devant Hotel de Paris^ 

Mentz^ otherwise ccUled Mayence. 



CONTENTS 



OP 



VOL. I. 



PART I. 

STRANGE STORIES, BY A NERVOUS GENTLEMAN. 

Page 
THE GREAT UNKNOWN 8 

THE HUNTING DINNER 6 

THE ADVENTURE OP MY UNCLE . . .16 

THE ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT . . • 42 

THE BOLD DRAGOON ; OR, THE ADVENTURE OF 

MY GRANDFATHER .... 52 

THE ADVENTURE OF THE GERMAN STUDENT . 71 

THE ADVENTURE OF THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE 84 

THE ADVENTURE OF THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER 102 

THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ITALIAN . . 119 

PART II. 

BUCKTHORNE AND HIS FRIENDS. 

LITERARY LIFE 179 

A LITERARY DINNER 184 



XVI CONTENTS. 

Page 

THE CLUB OF QUEER FELLOWS • . 191 

THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR .... 203 

NOTORIETY 244« 

A PRACTICAL PHILOSOPHER . . . . 24Q 

BUCKTHORNE ; OR9 THE YOUNG MAN OF GREAT 

EXPECTATIONS 255 



PART I. 



STRANGE STORIES. 



BY 



A NERVOUS GENTLEMAN. 



I '11 tell you more^ there was a fish taken^ 

A monstrous fish^ with a sword by 's side^ a long sword, 

A pike in 's neck, and a gun in 's nose, a huge gun. 

And letters of mart in 's mouth from the Duke of Florence. 

Cleanthes. This is a monstrous lie. 

Toni^. I do confess it. 

Do you think I'd tell you truths ? 

Fletcher's Wipe poe a Month. 



VOL. 1. B 



THE GREAT UNKNOWN 



The following adventures were related to me 
by the same nervous gentleman who told me the 
romantic tale of the Stout Gtentleman, published 
in Braeebridge HalL It is very singular^ that 
although I expressly stated that story to have been 
told to me, and described the very person who 
told it, still it has been received as an adventure 
that happened to myself. Now I protest I never 
met with any adventure of the kind. I should 
not have grieved at this, had it not been inti- 
mated by the author of Waverly, in an introduc- 
tion to his novel of Peveril of the Peak, that he 

V 

was himself the stout gentleman alluded to. I 

have ever since been importuned by questions 

and letters from gentlemen, and particularly 

from ladies without number, touching what I 

had seen of the Great Unknown. 

B 2 







4 THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 

Now all this is extremely tantalising. It 
is like being congratulated on the 'high prize 
when one has drawn a blank ; for I have just as 
great a desire as any one of the public to pene- 
trate the mystery of that very singular person- 
age, whose voice fills every comer of the world, 
without any one being able to tell from whence 
it comes. 

My friend the nervous gentleman,. also, who 
is a man of very shy retired habits, complains 
that he has been excessively annoyed in conse- 
quence of its getting about in his neighbour- 
hood that he is the fortunate personage. Inso- 
much, that he has become a character of con- 
siderable notoriety in two or three country towns, 
and has been repeatedly teased to exhibit him- 
self at blue stocking parties, for no other reason 
, than that of being ^^ the gentleman who has had 
a glimpse of the author of Waverly." 

Indeed the poor man has grown ten times 
as nervous as ever, since he has discovered, on 
such good authority, who the stout gentleman 
was; and will never forgive himself for not 



• • 






• 



THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 5 

having made a more resolute effort to get a full 
sight of him. He has anxiously endeavoured 
to call up a recollection of what he saw of that 
portly personage; and has ever since kept a 
curious eye on all gentlemen of more than or- 
dinary dimensions, whom he has seen getting 
into stage coaches. All in vain ! The features 
he had caught a glimpse of seem common to 
the whole race of stout gentlemen, and the Great 
Unknown remains as great an imknown as ever. 



Having premised these circumstances, I will 
now let the nervous gentleman proceed with 
his stories. — 



THE HUNTING DINNER, 



I WAS once at a hunting dinner given by a 
worthy fox-hunting old Baronet, who kept bache- 
lor's hall in jovial style, in an ancient rook- 
haunted family mansion, in one of the middle 
counties. He had been a devoted admirer of 
the fair sex in his young days ; but, having tra- 
velled much, studied the sex in various countries 
with distinguished success, and returned home 
profoundly instructed, as he supposed, in the 
ways of woman, and a perfect master of the art 
of pleasing, he had the mortification of being 
jilted by a little boarding-school girl, who was 
scarcely versed in the accidence of love. 

The Baronet was completely overcome by 
such an incredible defeat ; retired from the world 
in disgust ; put himself imder the government 
of his housekeeper; and took to fox-hunting 



THE HUNTING DINN*ER. 7 

r. 
t 

like a perfect Nimrod. Whatever poets may say 
to the contrary, a man will grow out of love as he 
grows old ; and a pack of fox-hounds may chase 
out of his heart even the memory of a boarding- 
school goddess. The Baronet was, when I saw 
him, as merry and mellow an old bachelor as ever 
followed a hound ; and the love he had once felt 
for one woman had spread itself over the whole 
sex ; so that there was not a pretty face in the 
whole country round but came in for a share. 

The dinner was prolonged till a late hour ; 
for our host having no ladies in his household 
to summon us to the drawing-room, the bottle 
maintained its true bachelor sway, unrivalled by 
its potent enemy the tea-kettle. The old hall 
in which we dined echoed to bursts of ro- 
bustious fox-hunting merriment that made the 
ancient antlers shake on the walls. By degrees, 
however, the wine and the wassail of mine 
host began to operate upon bodies already a 
little jaded by the chase. The choice spirits 
which flashed up at the beginning of the dinner 
sparkled for a time, then gradually went out 



8 THE HUNTING DINNEK. 

one after another, or only emitted now and then 
a faint gleam from the socket. Some of the 
briskest talkers, who had given tongue so bravely 
at the first burst, fell fast asleep ; and none kept 
on their way but certain of those long-winded 
prosers, who, like short-legged hounds, worry on 
unnoticed at the bottom of conversaticm, but are 
sure to be in at the death. Even these at length 
subsided into silence; and scarcely any thing 
was heard but the nasal commimications of two 
or three veteran masticators, who having been 
silent while awake, were indemnifying the com- 
pany in their sleep. 

At length the announcement of tea and coffee 
in the cedar parlour roused all hands from this 
temporary torpor. Every one awoke marvel- 
lously renovated, and while sipping the refresh- 
ing beverage out of the Baronet's old-fashioned 
hereditary china, began to think of departing 
for their several homes. But here a sudden dif- 
ficulty arose. While we had been prolonging 
our repast, a heavy winter storm had set in, 
with snow, rain, and sleet, driven by siich bitter 



THE HUNTING DINNER. 9 

blasts of wind^ that they threatened to penetrate 
to the very bone. 

" It 's all in vain," said our hospitable host, 
" to think of putting one's head out of doors in 
such weather. So, gentlemen, I hold you my 
guests for this night at least, and will have your 
quarters prepared accordingly." 

The imruly weather, which became more and 
more tempestuous, rendered the hospitable sug- 
gestion unanswerable. The only question was, 
whether such an unexpected accession of com- 
pany to an already crowded house would not put 
the housekeeper to her trumps to accommodate 
them. 

"Pshaw," cried mine host, "did you ever know 
of a bachelor's hall that was not elastic, and able 
to accommodate twice as many as it could hold?" 
So, out of a good-humoured pique, the house- 
keeper was summoned to a consultation before 
us all. The old lady appeared in her gala suit 
of faded brocade, which rustled with flurry and 
agitation ; for in spite of our host's bravado, she 



10 THE HUNTING DINNER. 

was a little perplexed. But in a bachelor's house, 
and with bachelor guests, these matters are 
readily managed. There is no lady of the house 
to stand upon squeamish points about lodging 
gentlemen in odd holes and comers, and ex- 
posing the shabby parts of the establishment 
A bachelor's housekeeper is used to shifts and 
emergencies ; so, after much worrying to and fro, 
and divers consultations about the red-room, and 
the blue-room, and the chintz-room, and the da- 
mask-room, and the little room with the bow 
window, the matter was finally arranged. 

When all this was done, we were once more 
summoned to the standing rural amusement of 
eating. The time that had been consumed in 
doziilg after dinner, and in the refreshment and 
consultation of the cedar parlour, was sufficient, 
in the opinion of the rosy-faced butler, to en- 
gender a reasonable appetite for supper. A 
slight repast had, therefore, been tricked up 
from the residue of dinner, consisting of a cold 
sirloin of beef, hashed venison, a devilled leg of 



THE HUNtiNG DINNER. 11 

A turkey or so, and a few other of those light 
articles taken by country gentlemen to ensure 
sound sleep and heavy scoring. 

The nap after dinner Had brightened up every 
jone's wit ; and a great deal of excellent humour 
.was expended upon the perplexities of mine 
iost and his housekeeper, by certain married 
gentlemen of the company, who considered them- 
selves privileged in joking with a bachelor's esta- 
blishment. From this the banter turned as to 
what quarters each would find, on being thus 
suddenly billeted in so antiquated a mansion. 

" By my soul," said an Irish captain of dra- 
goons, one of the most merry and boisterous of 
the party, " by my soul but I should not be 
surprised if some of those good-looking gentle- 
folks that hang along the walls should walk 

about the rooms of this stormy night ; or if I 

« 

should find the ghost of one of those long-waisted 
ladies turning into my bed in mistake for her 
grave in the churchyard." 

" Do you believe in ghosts, then ?" said a thin,. 



12 THE HUNTING DINNER. 

hatched-faced gentleman, vnth projecting eyes 
like a lobster. 

I had remarked this last personage during 
dinner-time for one of those incessant ques« 
tioners, who have a craving, unhealthy appe- 
tite in conversation. He never seemed satis- 
fied with the whole of a story ; never laughed 
when others laughed ; but always put the joke 
to the question. He never could enjoy the 
kernel of the nut, but pestered himself to get 
more out of the shell. — " Do you believe in 
ghosts, then ?" said the inquisitive gentleman. 

" Faith but I do," replied the jovial Irish- 
man. " I was brought up in the fear and belief 
of them. We had a Benshee in our own fa- 
mily, honey." 

" A Benshee, and what 's that ?" cried the 
questioner. 

" Why, an old lady ghost that tends upon 
your real Milesian families, and waits at their 
window to let them know when some of them 
are to die." 



THE HUNTING DINNER. . 13 

" A mighty pleasant piece of inforination !" 
cried an elderly gentleman with a knowing 
look, and with a flexible nose, to which he 
could give a whimsical twist when he wished 
to be waggish. 

" By my soul, but I 'd have you to know it 's 
a piece of distinction to be waited on by a Ben- 
shee. It 's a proof that one has pure blood in 
one's veins. But i' faith, now we are talking of 
ghosts, there never was a house or a night better 
fitted than the present for a ghost adventure. 
Pray, Sir John, haven't you such a thing as 
a haunted chamber to put a guest in ?" 

" Perhaps," said the Baronet, smiling, " I 

ft 

might accommodate you even on that point." 

" Oh, I should like it of all things, my jewel. 
Some dark oaken room, with ugly, wo-begone 
portraits, that stare dismally at one ; and about 
which the housekeeper has a power of delightful 
stories of love and murder. And then a dim 
lamp, a* table with a rusty sword across it, and 
a spectre all in white, to' draw aside one's cur- 
tains at midnight ■ " 



14 THE HUNTING DINNER. 

^* In truth," said an old gentleman at one 
^id of the table, ^^ you put me in mind of an 
anecdote — " 

" Oh, a ghost story ! a ghost story !" was vo- 
ciferated round the board, every one edging his 
chair a little nearer. 

The attention of the whole company was now 
turned upon the speaker. He was an old gen-^ 
tleman, one side of whose face was no match for 
the other. The eyelid drooped and hung down 
like an unhinged window-shutter. Indeed the 
whole side of his head was dilapidated,, and 

« 

seemed like the wing of a house shut up and 
haunted. I '11 warrant that side was well stuffed 
with ghost stories. 

There was an universal demand for the tale. 

" Nay," said the old gentleman, « it's a mere 
anecdote, and a very commonplace one; but 
such as it is you shall have it. It is a story that 
I once heard my uncle tell as having happened 
to himself. He was a man very apt to meet 
with strange adventures. I have heard him tell 
of others much more singular." 



THE HUNTING DINNER. 15 

" What kind of a man was your uncle ?" said 
the questioning gentleman. 

" Why, he was rather a dry, shrewd kind of 
body ; a great traveller, and fond of telling his 
adventures." 

" Pray, how old might he have been when that 
happened ?" 

" When what happened?" cried the gentleman 
with the flexible nose, impatiently. " Egad, you 
have not given any thing a chance to happen. 
Come^ never mind our uncle's age ; let us have 
his adventures." 

The inquisitive gentleman being for the 
moment silenced, the old gentleman with the 
haunted head proceeded. — 



THE ADVENTURE OF MY 

UNCLE. 



Many years since, some time before the 
French revolution, my uncle had passed several 
months at Paris. The English and French 
were on better terms in those days than at pre- 
sent, and mingled cordially together in society. 
The EngUsh went abroad to spend money then, 
and the French were always ready to help them : 
they go abroad to save money at present, and 
that they can do without French assistance. 
Perhaps the traveUing EngUsh were fewer and 
choicer then than at present, when the whole 
nation has broke loose and inundated the con-- 
tinent. At any rate, they circulated more readily 
and currently in foreign society,, and my uncle. 



THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 17 

during his residence in Paris, made many very 
intimate acquaintances among the French no- 
blesse. 

Some time afterwards, he was making a journey 
in the winter time in that part of Normandy 
called the Pays de Caux, when, as evening was 
closing in, he perceived the turrets of an ancient 
chateau rising out of the trees of its walled 
park ; each turret, with its high conical roof of 
grey slate, like a candle with an extinguisher 
on it. 

" To whom does that chateau belong, friend ?" 
cried my uncle to a meagre but fiery postilion, 
who with tremendous jackboots and cocked hat 
was floundering on before him: 

" To Monseigneur the Marquis de ^ said 

the postilion, touching his hat, partly out of re- 
spect to my uncle, and partly out of reverence 
to the noble name pronounced. 

My uncle recollected the Marquis for a par- 
ticular friend in Paris, who had often expressed 
a wish to see him at his paternal chateau. My 
unde was an old traveller, one who knew how 

VOL. I. c 



18 THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 

to turn things to account He revolved for a 
few moments in his mind how agreeable it would 
be to his friend the Marquis to be surprised in 
this sociable way by a pop visit ; and how much 
more agreeable to himself to get into snug 
quarters in a chateau, and have a relish of the 
Marquis's well-known kitchen, and a smack of 
his superior Champagne and Burgundy, rather 
than put up with the miserable lodgement and 
miserable fare of a provincial inn. In a few 
minutes, therefore, the meagre postiKon was 
cracking his whip like a very devil, or like a 
true Frenchman, up the long straight avenue 
that led to the chateau. 

You have no doubt all seen French chateaus, 
as every body travels in France nowadays. 
This was one of the oldest ; standing naked and 
alone in the midst of a desert of gravel walks 
and cold stone terraces; with a cold-looking 
formal garden, cut into angles and rhomboids ; 
and a cold leafless park, divided geometrically 
by straight alleys; and two or three cold-looking 
noseless statues; and fountains spouting cold 



THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 19 

water enough to make one's teeth chatter. At 
least such was the feeling they imparted on the 
wintry day of my uncle's visit ; though, in hot 
smnmer weather, I'll warrant there was glare 
enough to scorch one's eyes out. 

The smacking of the postilion's whip, which 
grew more and more intense the nearer they 
approached, frightened a flight of pigeons out 
of the dove-cote, and rooks out of the roofs, and 
finally a crew of servants out of the chateau, 
with the Marquis at their head. He was en- 
chanted to see my uncle, for his chateau, like 
the house of our worthy host, had not many 
more guests at the time than it could accom- 
modate. So he kissed my unde on each cheek, 
after the French fashion, and ushered him into 
the castle. 

The Marquis did the honours of his house 
with the urbanity of his country. In fact, he 
was proud of his old family chateau, for part of 
it was extremely old. There was a tower and 
chapel which had been built almost before the 
memory of man ; but the rest was more modern, 

c 2 



20 THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 

the castle having been nearly demolished during 
the wars of the league. The Marquis dwelt 
upon this event with great satisfaction, and 
seemed really to entertain a gratefiil feeling to- 
wards Henry the Fourth, for havings thought 
his paternal mansion worth battering down. He 
had many stories to tell of the prowess of his 
ancestors ; and several skull-caps, helmets, and 
cross-bows, and divers huge boots, and buff jerkins, 
to show, which had been worn by the leaguers. 
Above all, there was a two-handled sword, which 
he could hardly wield, but which he displayed^ 
as a proof that there had been giants in his 
family. 

In truth, he was but a small descendant from 
such grieat warriors. When you looked at their 
bluff visages and brawny limbs, as depicted in 
their portraits, and then at the little Marquis, 
with his spindle shanks, and his sallow lantern 
visage, flanked with a pair of powdered ear- 
locks, or ailes de pigeon^ that seemed ready to 
fly away with it, you could hardly believe him 
to he of the same race. But when you looked 



THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE, 21 

cat the eyes, that sparkled out like a beetle's from 
each side of his hooked nose, you saw at once 
that he inherited all the fiery spirit of his fore- 
fathers. In fact, a Frenchman's spirit never 
exhales, however his body may dwindle. It ra- 
ther rarifies, and grows more inflammable, as 
the earthy particles diminish ; and I have seen 
valour enough in a little fiery-hearted French 
dwarf to have furnished out a tolerable giant. 

When once the Marquis, as he was wont, put 
on one of the old helmets that were stuck up in 
his hall, though his head no more filled it than 
a dry pea its peascod, yet his eyes flashed ^from 
the bottom of the iron cavern with the brilliancy 
of carbuncles; and when he poised the pon- 
derous two-handled sword of his ancestors, you 
would have thought you saw the doughty little 
David wielding the sword of Goliah, which was 
unto him like a weaver's beam. 

However, gentlemen, I am dwelling too long 
on this description of the Marquis and his cha- 
teau, but you must excuse me ; he was an old 
friend of my uncle ; and whenever my uncle told 



S2 THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 

the story^ he was always fond of talking a great 
deal about his host. — ^Poor little Marquis ! He 
was one of that handful of gallant courtiers who 
made such a devoted but hopeless stand in the 
cause of their sovereign, in the chateau of the 
Tuilleries, against the irruption of the mob, on 
the sad tenth of August! He displayed the valour 
of a preux French chevalier to the last ; flou- 
rished feebly his little court sword with a 9a-9a ! 
in face of a whole legion of sans culottes ; but 
was pinned to the wall like a butterfly, by the 
pike of a poissarde, and his heroic soul was 
borne up to heaven on his ailes de pigeon. 

But all this has nothing to do with my story. 
To the point then — ^When the hour arrived for 
retirmg for the night, my uncle was shown to 
his room, in a venerable old tower. It was the 
oldest part of the chateau, and had in ancient 
times been the donjon or strong hold ; of course 
the chamber was none of the best. The Mar- 
quis had put him there, however, because he 
knew him to be a traveller of taste, and fond of 
antiquities ; and also because the better apart- 



THE ADVENTUKE OF MY UNCLE. 23 

ments were already occupied. Indeed, he per* 
fectly reconciled my uncle to his quarters by 
mentioning the great personages who had once 
inhabited them, all of whom were, in some way 
or other, connected with the family. If you 
would take his word for it, John Baliol, or as he 
called him, Jean de Bailleul, had died of chagrin 
in this very chamber, on hearing of the success^ 
• of his rival, Robert the Bruce, at the battle of 
Bannockbum. And when he added that. the 
Duke de Guise had slept in it, my imcle was 
fain to felicitate himself on being honoured with 
such distinguished quarters. 

The night was shrewd and windy, and the 
chamber none of the warmest. An old long- 
faced, long-bodied servant, in quaint livery, who 
attended upon my uncle, threw down an arm*^ 
full of wood beside the fire-place, gave a queer 
look about the room, and then wished him bon 
repos with a grimace and a shrug that would 
have been suspicious from any other than an 
old French servant. 



24 THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 

The chamber had indeed a wild crazy look^ 
enough to strike any one who had read romances 
with apprehension and foreboding. The win- 
dows were high and narrow, and had once been 
loop-holes, but had been rudely enlarged, as well 
as the extreme thickness of the walls would 
permit ; and the ill-fitted casements rattled to 
every breeze. You would have thought^ on a 
windy night, some of the old leaguers were 
tramping and clanking about the apartment in 
their huge boots and rattling spurs. A door 
which stood ajar, and, like a true French door, 
would stand ajar in spite of every reason and 
effort to the contrary, opened upon a long dark 
corridor, that led the Lord knows whither, and 
seemed just made for ghosts to air themselves 
in, when they turned out of their graves at 
midnight. The wind would spring up into a 
hoarse murmur through this passage, and creak 
the door to and fro, as if some dubious ghost 
were balancing in its mind whether to come in 
or not. In a word, it was precisely the kind of 



THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE; 25 

comfortless apartment that a ghost, if ghost 
there were in the chateau, would single out for 
its favourite lounge* 

My uncle, however, though a man accustomed 
to meet with strange adventures, apprehended 
none at the time. He made several attempts to 
shut the door, but in vain. Not that he appre- 
hended any thing, for he was too old a traveller 
to be daunted by a wild-looking apartment; 
but the night, as I have said, was cold and gusty^ 
and the wind howled about the old turret pretty 
much as it does roimd this old mansion at this 
moment; and the breeze from the long dark 
corridor came in as damp and chiUy as if from 
a dungeon. My uncle, therefore, since he could 
not close the door, threw a quantity of wood on 
the fire, which soon sent up a flame in the great 
Wide-mouthed chinmey that illumined the whole 
chamber, and made the shadow of the tongs on 
the opposite wall look like a long-legged giant. 
My uncle now clambered on the top of the half 
score of mattresses which form a French bed, 
and which stood in a deep recess ; then tucking 



26 THE ADVENTUEE OF MY UNCLE. 

himself snugly in, and burying himself up to 
the chin in the bed-clothes, he lay looking at the 
fire, and listening to the wind, and thinking 
how knowmgly he had come over his friend the 
Marquis for a night's lodging — and so he fell 
asleep. 

He had not taken above half of his first nap 
when he was awakened by the clock of the 
chateau, in the turret over his chamber, which 
struck midnight. It was just such an old clock 
88 ghosts are fond of. It had a deep, dismal 
tone, and struck so slowly and tediously that my 
unde thought it would never have done. He 
counted and counted till he was confident he 
counted thirteen, and then it stopped. 

The fire had burnt low, and the blaze of the 
last faggot was almost expiring, burning in small 
blue flames, which now and then lengthened 
up into little white gleams. My uncle lay with 
his eyes half closed, and his night-cap drawn 
almost down to his nose. His fancy was already 
wandering, and began to mingle up the present 
scene with the crater of Vesuvius, the French 



THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 27 

Opera, the Coliseum at Rome, Dolly's chop- 
house in London, and all the farrago of noted 
places with which the brain of a traveller is 
crammed : — ^in a word, he was just falling asleep* 
Suddenly he was aroused by the sound of 
footsteps, that appeared to be slowly pacing 
along the corridor. My unde, as I have often 
heard him say himself, was a man not easily 
frightened. So h^ lay quiet, supposing that this 
might be some other guest, or some servant on his 
way to bed. The footsteps, however, approached 
the door ; the door gently opened ; whether of 
its own accord, or whether pushed open, my 
uncle could not distinguish : a figure all in white 
glided in. It was a female, tall and stately in 
person, and of a most commanding air. Her 
dress was of an ancient fashion, ample in volume^ 
and sweeping the floor. She walked up to the 
fire-place, without regarding my uncle, who 
raised his night-cap with one hand, and stared 
earnestly at her. She remained for some time 
standing by the fire, which flashing up at in- 
tervals, cast blue and white gleams of light. 



28 THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 

that enabled my uncle to remark her appearance 
minutely. 

Her face was ghastly pale, and perhaps ren- 
dered still more so by the bluish light of the 
fire. It possessed beauty, but its beauty was 
saddened by care and anxiety. There was the 
look of one accustomed to trouble, but of one 
whom trouble could not cast down or subdue ; 
fear there was still the predominating air of 
proud unconquerable resolution. Such at least 
was the opinion formed by my uncle, and he 
considered himself a great physiognomist. 

The figure remained, as I said, for some time 
by the fire, putting out first one hand, then the 
other ; then each foot alternately, as if warming 
itself; for your ghosts, if ghost it really was, are 
apt to be cold. My uncle, furthermore, remarked 
that it wore high-heeled shoes, after an ancient 
fashion, with paste or diamond buckles, that 
sparkled as though they were alive. At length 
the figure turned gently round, casting a glassy 
look about the apartment, which, as it passed 
over my uncle, made his blood run cold, and 



THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 29 

chilled the very marrow in his bones. It then 
stretched its arms towards heaven, clasped its 
hands, and wringing them in a supplicating 
manner, glided slowly out of the room. 

My imcle lay for some time meditating on 
this visitation, for (as he remarked when he told 
me the story) though a man of firmness, he was 
also a man of reflection, and did not reject a 
thing because it was out of the regular course 
of events. However, being, as I have before 
said, a great traveller, and accustomed to strange 

adventures, he drew his night-cap resolutely over 
his eyes, turned his back to the door, hoisted the 
bed-clothes high over his shoulders, and gra- 
dually fell asleep. 

How long he slept he could not say, when he 
was awakened by the voice of some one at his 
bed-side. He turned round, and beheld the old 
French servant, with his ear-locks in tight 
buckles on each side of a long lantern face, on 
which habit had deeply wrinkled an everlasting 
smile. He made a thousand grimaces, and asked 
a thousand pardons for disturbing Monsieur^ 



so THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 

but the moming was considerably advanced. 
While my uncle was dressing, he called vaguely 
to mind the visitor of the preceding night. He 
asked the ancient domestic what lady was in 
the habit of rambling about this part of the 
chateau at night. The old valet shrugged his 
shoulders as high as his head, laid one hand on 
his bosom, threw open the other with every 
finger extended, made a most whimsical grimace, 
which he meant to be complimentary : — 

" It was not for him to know any thing of 
les bonnes Jbr tunes Of Monsieur.'* 

My uncle saw there was nothing satisfactory 
to be learnt in this quarter. — ^After breakfast, 
he was walking with the Marquis through the 
modem apartments of the chateau, sliding over 
the well-waxed floors of silken saloons, amidst 

« 

furniture rich in gilding and brocade, until they 
came to a long picture gallery, containing many 
portaraits, some in oil and some in chalks. 

Here was an ample field for the eloquence of 
his host, who had all the pride of a nobleman of 
the ancien regime. There was not a grand 



Tlte ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 81 

name in Normandy, and hardly one in France, 
which wate not, in some way or other, connected 
with his house. My uncle stood listening with 
inward impatience, resting sometimes on one 
leg, sometimes on the other, as the little Marquis 
descanted, with his usual fire and vivacity, on the 
achievements of his ancestors, whose portraits 
hung along the wall ; from the martial deeds of 
the stem warriors in steel, to the gallantries and 
intrigues of the blue-eyed gentlemen, with fair 
smiling faces, powdered ear-locks, laced ruffles, 
and pink and blue silk coats and breeches ; — ^not 
forgetting the conquests of the lovely shepherd- 
esses, with hooped petticoats and waists no 
thicker than an hour-glass, who appeared ruling 
over their sheep and their swains, with dainty 
crooks decorated with fluttering ribands. 

In the midst of his friend's discourse, my 
unde was sitartled on beholding a full-length 
portrait, which seemed to him the very counter- 
part of his visitor of the preceding night. 

** Methinks,'' said he, pointing to it, " I have 
seen the original of this portrait." 



32 THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 

" Pardonnez moi,'* replied the Maxquis po- 
litely, ^^ that can hardly be, as the lady has been 
dead more than a hundred years. That was the 
beautiful Duchess de Longueville, who figured 
during the minority of Louis the Fourteenth.** 

^^ And was there any thing remarkable in her 
history ?" 

Never was question more unlucky. The 
little Marquis immediately threw himself into 
the attitude of a man about to tell a long story. 
In fact, my uncle had pulled upon himself the 
whole history of the civil war of the Frondei in 
which the beautiful Duchess had played so di- 
stinguished a part. Turenne, Coligni, Mazarine* 
were called up from their graves to grace his 
narration ; nor were the affairs of the Barricadoes, 
nor the chivalry of the Port Cocheres forgotten. 
My uncle began to wish himself a thousand 
leagues off from the Marquis and his merciless 
memory, when suddenly the little man's recol- 
lections took a more interesting turn. He was 
relating the imprisonment of the Duke de Lon- 
gueville with the Princes Cond6 and Conti in 



THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. SS 

the chateau of Vineennes, and the ineffectual 
efforts of the Duchess to rouse the sturdy Nor- 
mans to their rescue. He had come to that 
part where she was invested by the royal forces 
in the Castle of Dieppe, 

" The spirit of the Duchess," proceeded the 
Marquis, " rose with her trials. It was astonish- 
ing to see so delicate and beautiful a being 
buffet so resolutely with hardships. She deter- 
mined on a desperate means of escape. You 
may have seen the chateau in which she was 
mewed up ; an old ragged wart of an edifice, 
standing on the knuckle of a hill, just above 
the rusty little town of Dieppe. One dark, un- 
ruly night she issued secretly out of a small 
postern gate of the castle, which the enemy had 
neglected to guard. The postern gate is there 
to this very day ; opening upon a narrow bridge 
over a deep fosse between the castle an^ the 
brow of the hill. She was followed by her fe- 
male attendants, a few domestics, and some gal- 
lant cavaliers, who still remained faithful to 
her fortunes. Her object was to gain a small 
TOL. I. D 



34 THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 

port about two leagues distant, where she had 

privately provided a vessel for her escape in case 

of emergency, 

" The little band of fugitives were obliged to 

perform the distance on foot. When they ar- 
rived at the port the wind was high and stormy, 
the tide contrary, the vessel anchored far off in 
the road; and no means of getting on board 
but by a fishing shallop that lay tossing like a 
cockleshell on the edge of- the surf. The Du- 
chess determined to risk the attempt. The sea- 
men endeavoured to dissuade her, but the inuni- 
nence of her danger on shore, and the magna* 
nimity of her spirit, urged her on. She had to 
be borne to the shallop in the arms of a mariner. 
Such was the violence of the winds and waves 
that he faltered, lost his foot-hold, and let his 
precious burthen fall into the sea. 

" The Duchess was nearly drowned, but partly 
through her own struggles, partly by the ex- 
ertions of the seamen, she got to land. As soon 
as she had a little recovered strength, she in- 
sisted on renewing the attempt. The storm. 



THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 85 

however, had by this time become so violent as 
to set all efforts at defiance. To delay, was to 
be discovered and taken prisoner. As the only 
resource left, she procured horses ; mounted with 
her female attendants, en croupe^ behind the 
'gallant gentlemen who accompanied her; and 
scoured the country to seek some temporary 
asylum. 

" While the Duchess," continued the Marquis, 
laying his forefinger on my imcle's breast to 
arouse his flagging attention, ** while the Du- 
chess, poor lady, was wandering amid the tem- 
pest in this disconsolate manner, she arrived at 
this chateau. Her approach caused some un- 
easiness ; for the clattering of a troop of horse 
at dead of night up the avenue of a lonely cha- 
teau, in those unsettled times, and in a troubled 
part of the country, was enough to occasion 
alarm. 

'^ A tall, broad-shouldered chasseur, armed 
to the teeth, galloped a-head, and announced 
tile name of the visitor. All uneasiness ^as 

D 2 



36 THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 

dispelled. The household turned out with flam- 
beaux to receive her, and never did torches 
gleam on a more weather-beaten, travel-stained 
band than came tramping into the court* Such 
pale, careworn faces, such bedraggled dresses, 
as the poor Duchess and her females presented, 
each seated behind her cavalier: while the 
half-drenched, half-drowsy pages and attendants 
seemed ready to fall from their horses with sleep 
and fatigue. 

" The Duchess was received with a hearty 
welcome by my ancestor. She was ushered into 
the hall of the chateau, and the fires soon crackled 
and blazed to cheer herself and her train ; and 
every spit and stewpan was put in requisition 
to prepare ample refreshment for the wayfarers. 

*^ She had a right to our hospitalities," con- 
tinued the Marquis, drawing himself up with a 
slight degree of stateliness, " for she was related 
to our family. I'll tell you how it was. Her fa- 
ther, Henry de Bourbon, prince of Cond^ '' 

^^ But, did the Duchess pass the night in the 



THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 37 

chateau ?" said my uncle rather abruptly, ter- 
rified at the idea of getting involved in one of 
the Marquis's genealogical discussions. 

*^ Oh, as to the Duchess, she was put into 
the very apartment you occupied last night, 
which at that time was a kind of state apart- 
ment. Her followers were quartered in the 
chambers opening upon the neighbouring cor- 
ridor, and her favourite page slept in an adjoining 
closet. Up and down the corridor walked the 
great chasseur who had announced her arrival, 
and who acted as a kind of centinel or guard. 
He was a dark, stern, powerful looking fellow ; 
and as the light of a lamp in the corridor fell 
upon his deeply-marked face and sinewy form, 
he seemed capable of defending the castle with 
his single arm. 

" It was a rough, rude night ; about this 
time of the year — apropos ! — now I think of it, 
last night was the anniversary of her visit. I 
may well remember the precise date, for it was 
a night not to be forgotten by our house. There 
is a singular tradition concerning it in our fa-. 



88 THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 

mily." Here the Marqtiis hesitated, and a cloud 
seemed to gather about his bushy eyebrows. 
" There is a tradition — that a strange occurrence 
took place that night. — ^A strange, mysterious, 
inexplicable occurrence — " Here he checked 
himself, and paused. 

" Did it relate to that lady ?** inquired my 
uncle eagerly. 

" It was past the hour of midnight,** resumed 

the Marquis, — " when the whole chateau " 

Here he paused again. My imcle made a move- 
ment of anxious curiosity. 

" Excuse me," said the Marquis, a slight 
blush streaking his sallow visage. ^* There are 
some circiunstances connected with our family 
history which I do not like to relate. That was 
a rude period. A time of great crimes among 
great men : for you know high blood, when it 
runs wrong, will not run tamely like blood of 
the canaille-— poor lady ! — But I have a little 
family pride, that-»^excuse me — we will change 
the subject, if you please — " 

My uncle's curiosity was piqued. The pomp- 



THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 89 

ous and magnificent introduction had led him 
to expect something wonderful in the story to 
which it served as a kind of avenue. He had 
no idea of being cheated out of it by a sudden 
fit of unreasonable squeamishness. Besides, 
being a traveller in quest of information, he 
considered it his duty to inquire into every 
thing. 

The Marquis, however, evaded every question. 
— " Well," said my unde, a little petulantly, 
" whatever you may think of it, I saw that lady 
last night." 

The Marquis stepped back and gazed at him 
with surprise. 

" She paid me a visit in my bedchamber." 

The Marquis pulled out his snufi*-box with a 
shrug and a smile ; taking this no doubt for an 
awkward piece of English pleasantry, which po- 
liteness required him to be charmed with. 

My tmcle went on gravely, however, and re- 
lated the whole circumstance. The Maxquis 
heard him through with profound attention. 



40 THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 

holding his snuff-box unopened in his hand. 
When the story was finished, he tapped on the 
lid of his box deliberately, took a long, sonorous 

pinch of snuff 

^ " Bah !" said the Marquis, and walked to- 
wards the other end of the gallery. 

Here the narrator paused. The company 
waited for some time for him to resimie his 
narration ; but he continued silent. 

" Well," said the inquisitive gentleman — 
" and what did your uncle say then ?" 

" Nothing," replied the other. 

" And what did the Marquis say further ?" 

" Nothing." 

" And is that all ?" 

" That is all," said the narrator, filling a glass 
of wine. 

" I surmise," said the shrewd old gentleman 
with the waggish nose, " I surmise the ghost 
must have been the old housekeeper walking her 
rounds to see that all was right." 



THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 41 

" Bah !" said the narrator. " My uncle was 
too much accustomed to strange sights not to 
know a ghost from a housekeeper !" 

There was a murmur round the table half of 
merriment, half of disappointment. I was in- 
clined to think the old gentleman had really an 
afterpart of his story in reserve ; but he sipped 
his wine and said nothing more ; and there was 
an odd expression about his dilapidated coim- 
tenance that left me in doubt whether he were 
in drollery or earnest. 

"Egad," said the knowing gentleman, with the 
flexible nose, "this story of your uncle puts me in 
mind of one that used to be told of an aunt of 
mine, by the mother's side ; though I don't 
know that it will bear a comparison, as the good 
lady was not so prone to meet with strange ad- 
ventures. But at any rate you shall have it." 



THE ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT. 



My aunt was a lady of large frame, strong 
mind, and great resolution : she was what might 
be termed a very manly woman. My unde 
was a thin, puny, little man, very meek and ac- 
quiescent, and no match for my aunt. It was 
observed that he dwindled and dwindled gra- 
dually away, from the day of his marriage. His 
wife's powerful mind was too much for him ; it 
wore him out. My aunt, however, took all pos- 
sible care of him ; had half the doctors in town 
to prescribe for him ; made him take all their 
prescriptions, and dosed him with physic enough 
to cure a whole hospital. All was in vain. My 
uncle grew worse and worse the more dosing 
and nursing he underwent, until in the end 



THE ADVENTUKE OF MY AUNT. 48 

he added another to the long list of matrimonial 
victims who have been killed with kindness. 

ft 

" And was it his ghost that appeared to her ?" 
asked the inquisitive gentleman, who had ques- 
tioned the former story-teller. 

^* You shall hear," replied the narrator. My 
aunt took on mightily for the death of her poor 
dear husband. Perhaps she felt some compunc- 
tion at having given him so much physic, and 
nursed him into his grave. At any rate, she did 
all that a widow could do to honour his memory. 
She spared no expense in either the quantity or 
quality of her mourning weeds ; she wore a 
miniature of him about her neck as large as a 
little sundial ; and she had a full length por- 
trait of him always hanging in her bed-cham^ 
ber. All the world extolled her conduct to the 
skies ; and it was determined that a woman who 
behaved so well to the memory of one husband 
deserved soon to get another. 

It was not long after this that she went to 
take up her residence in an old country seat in 
Derbyshire, which had long been in the care of 



44 THE ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT. 

merely a steward and housekeeper. She took 
most of her servants with her, intending to 
make it her principal abode. The house stood 
in a lonely, wild part of the country, among the 
gray Derbyshire hills, with a murderer hanging 
in chains on a bleak height in full view. 

The servants from town were half frightened 
out of their wits at the idea of living in such 
a dismal, pagan-looking place ; especially when 
they got together in the servants' hall in the 
evening, and compared notes on all the hob- 
goblin stories they had picked up in the course 
of the day. They were afraid to venture alone 
about the gloomy, black-looking chambers. My 
lady's maid, who was troubled with nerves, de- 
clared she could never sleep alone in such a 
" gashly runmiaging old building ;" and the foot- 
man, who was a kind-hearted young fellow, did 
all in his power to cheer her up. 

My aunt herself seemed to be struck with the 
lonely appearance of the house. Before she 
went to bed, therefore, she examined well the 
fastnesses of the doors and windows; locked 



THE ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT. 45 

up the plate with her own hands, and carried 
the keys, together with a little box of money 
and jewels, to her own room ; for she was a 
notable woman, and always saw to all things 
herself. Having put the keys under her pillow, 
and dismissed her maid, she sat by her toilet 
arranging her hair ; for being, in spite of her 
grief for my imcle, rather a buxom widow, she 
was somewhat particular about her person. She 
sat for a little while looking at her face in the 
glass, first on one side, then on the other, as la- 
dies are apt to do when they would ascertain 
whether they have been in good looks; for a 
roystering coimtry squire of the neighbourhood, 
with whom she had flirted when a girl, had 
called that day to welcome her to the country. 

All of a sudden she thought she heard some- 
thing move behind her. — She looked hastily 
round, but there was nothing to be seen.^ — No- 
thing but the grimly painted portrait of her 
poor dear man, which had been hung against 
the wall. 

She gave a heavy sigh to his memory, as she 



46 THE ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT. 

was accustomed to do whenever she spoke of 
him in company, and then went on ai\jufiting 
her night dress, and thinking of the squire. 
Her sigh was re-echoed, or answered by a long 
drawn breath. She looked round again» but 
no one was to be seen. She ascribed these 
sounds to the wind oozing through the rat-holes 
of the old mansion, and proceeded leisurely to 
put her hair in papers, when, all at once, she 
thought she perceived one of the eyes of the 
portrait move. 

" The back of her head being toward it !'' said 
the story-teller with the ruined h^ad, " good !" 

" Yes, sir !" replied drily the narrator, " her 
back being toward the portrait, but her eyes 
fixed on its reflection in the glass." Well, as I 
was saying, she perceived one of the eyes of the 
portrait move. So strange a circumstance, as 
you may well suppose, gave her a sudden shock. 
To assure herself of the fact, she put one hand 
to her forehead as if rubbing it ; peeped through 
her fingers, and moved the candle with the other 
hand. The light of the taper gleamed on the 



THE ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT, 47 

eye, and was reflected from it. She was sure it 
moved. Nay more, it seemed to give her a wink, 
as she had sometimes known her hushand to do 
when living \ It struck a momentary chill to her 
heart; for she was a lone woman, and felt her- 
self fearfully situated. 

The chill was but transient. My aunt, who 
was almost as resolute a personage as your uncle, 
sir, [turning to the old story-teller,] became in- 
stantly calm and collected. She went on ad- 
justing her dress. She even hummed an air, 
and did not make a single false note. She ca- 
sually overturned a dressing-box ; took a candle 
and picked up the articles one by one from the 
floor; pursued a rolling pincushion that was^ 
making the best of its way under the bed ; then 
opened the door; looked for an inst^t into the 
corridor, as if in doubt whether to go ; and then 

» 

walked quietly out. 

She hastened down stairs, ordered the servants 
to arm themselves with the weapons that first 
came to hand, placed herself at their head, and 
returned almost immediately. 



48 THE ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT. 

Her hastily levied army presented a for- 
midable force. The steward had a rusty blun- 
derbuss, the coachman a loaded whip, the foot- 
man a pair of horse pistols, the cook a huge 
chopping knife, and the butler a bottle in each 
hand. My aunt led the van with a red-hot poker, 
and, in my opinion, she was the most formidable 
of the p^rty. The waiting-maid, who dreaded 
to stay alone in the servants' hall, brought up 
the rear, smelling to a broken bottle of volatile 
salts, and expressing her terror of the ghosteses. 

" Ghosts !" said my aunt resolutely. " I '11 
singe their whiskers for them !" 

They entered the chamber. All was still and 
undisturbed as when she had left it. They ap- 
proached the portrait of my uncle. 

" Pull me down that picture !" cried my aunt. 
A heavy groan, and a soimd like the chattering 
of teeth, issued from the portrait. The servants 
shrunk back ; the maid uttered a faint shriek, 
and clung to the footman for support. 

" Instantly!" added my aunt, with a stamp of 
the foot. 



THE ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT. 49 

The picture was pulled down, and from a 
recess behind it, in which had formerly stood a 
clock, they hauled forth a round-shouldered, 
black-bearded varlet, with a knife as long as 
my arm, but trembling all over like an aspen- 
leaf. 

" Well, and who was he ? No ghost, I sup- 
pose," said the inquisitive gentleman. 

" A Knight of the Post," replied the narrator, 
" who had been smitten with the wojth of the 
wealthy widow; or rather a marauding Tarquin, 
who had stolen into her chamber to violate her 
purse, and rifle her strong box, when all the 
house should be asleep. In plain terms," con- 
tinued he, " the vagabond was a loose idle fellow 
of the neighbourhood, who had once been a ser- 
vant in the house, and had been employed to 
assist in arranging it for the reception of its 
mistress. He confessed that he had contrived 
this hiding-place for his nefarious purposes, and 
had borrowed an eye from the portrait by way 
of a reconnoitring hole." 

VOL. I. E 



50 THE ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT. 

" And what did they do with him? — did they 
hang him?" resumed the questioner. 

" Hang him ! — how could they?" exclaimed 
a beetle-browed Barrister, with a hawk's nose. 
" The offence was not capital. No robbery, no 
assault had been committed. No forcible entry 
or breaking into the premises. — '' 

« My aunV said the narrator, " was a woman 
of spirit, and apt to take the law in her own 
hands. She had her own notions of cleanUness 
also. She ordered the fellow to be drawn through 
the horsepond, to cleanse away all offences, and 
then to be well rubbed down with an oaken 
towel." 

" And what became of him afterwards ?" said 
the inquisitive gentleman. 

" I do not exactly know. I believe he was sent 
on a voyage of improvement to Botany Bay." 

" And your aunt," said the inquisitive gentle- 
man ; " I '11 warrant she took care to make her 
maid sleep in the room with her after that." 

" No, sir, she did better ; she gave her hand 



THE ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT. 51 

shortly after to the roystering squire ; for she 
used to observe, that it was a dismal thing for a 
woman to sleep alone in the country." 

" She was right," observed the inquisitive 
gentleman, nodding sagaciously; " but I am 
sorry they did not hang that fellow." 

It was agreed on all hands that the last nar- 
rator had brought his tale to the most satisfactory 
conclusion, though a coimtry clergyman present 
regretted that the uncle and aunt, who figured 
in the different stories, had not been married to- 
gether: they certainly would have been well 
matched. 

" But I don't see, after all," said the inqui- 
sitive gentleman, " that there was any ghost in 
this last story." 

" Oh ! If it -s ghosts you want, honey," cried 
the Irish Captain of Dragoons, " if it 's ghosts 
you want, you shall have a whole regiment of 
them. And since these gentlemen have given 
the adventures of their uncles and aunts, faith 
and I '11 even give you a chapter out of my own 
family history." 

E 2 



THE BOLD DRAGOON; 



OR THE 



ADVENTURE OF MY GRANDFATHER. 



My grandfather was a bold Dragoon, for its 
a profession, d'ye see, that has run in the family. 
All my forefathers have been Dragoons, and 
died on the field of honour, except myself, and 
I hope my posterity may be able to say the 
same ; however, I don't mean to be vain- 
glorious. — Well, my grandfather, as I said, was a 
bold Dragoon, and had served in the Low Coun- 
tries. In fact, he was one of that very army, 
which, according to my uncle Toby, swore so ter- 
ribly in Flanders. He could swear a good stick 
himself ; and moreover was the very man that 
introduced the doctrine Corporal Trim men- 
tions of radical heat and radical moisture ; or, in 
other words, the mode of keeping out the damps 



THE BOl.D DliAGOON. 53 

of ditch-water by burnt brandy. Be that as it 
may, it 's nothing to the purport of my story. I 
only tell it to show you that my grandfather was 
a man not easily to be humbugged. He had seen 
service, or, according to his own phrase, he had 
seen the devil — and that 's saying every thing. 

Well, gentlemen, my grandfather was on his 
way to England, for which he intended to em- 
bark from Ostend — bad luck to the place ! — for 
one where I was kept by storms and head winds 
for three long days, and the devil of a jolly com- 
panion or pretty face to comfort me. Well, as 
I was saying, my grandfather was on his way to 
England, or rather to Ostend — no matter which, 
it 's all the same. So one evening, towards night- 
fall, he rode jollily into Bruges. — Very like you all 
know Bruges, gentlemen ; a queer old-fashioned 
Flemish town, once, they say, a great place 
for trade and money-making in old times, when 
the Mynheers were in their glory ; but almost as 
lai^e and as empty as an Irishman's pocket at 
the present day. — Well, gentlemen, it was at the 



54 THE BOLD DRAGOON. 

time of the annual fair. All Bruges was 
crowded ; and the canals swarmed with Dutch 
boats, and the streets swarmed with Dutch mer- 
chants ; and there was hardly any getting along 
for goods, wares, and merchandizes, and peasants 
in big breeches, and women in half a score of 
petticoats. 

My grandfather rode jollily along, in his easy 
slashing way, for he was a saucy sun-shiny fel- 
low — staring about him at the motley crowd, 
and the old houses with gable ends to the street, 
and storks' nests on the chimneys ; winking at 
the yafrows who showed their faces at the win- 
dows, and joking the women right and left in 
the street ; all of whom laughed, and took it in 
amazing good part ; for though he did not know 
a word o£ the language, yet he had always a 
knack of making himself understood among the 
women. 

Well, gentlemen, it being the time of the 
annual fair, all the town was crowded, every inn 
and tavern full, and my grandfather applied in 



THE BOLD DRAGOOX. 55 

vain from one to the other for admittance. At 
length he rode up to an old rackety inn that 
looked ready to fall to pieces, and which all the 
rats would have run away from, if they could 
have found room in any other house to put their 
heads. It was just such a queer building as 
you see in Dutch pictures, with a tall roof that 
reached up into the clouds, and as many garrets 
one over the other, as the seven heavens of Ma- 
homet. Nothing had saved it from tumbling 
down but a stork's nest on the chimney, which 
always brings good luck to a house in the Low 
Countries ; and at the very time of my grand- 
father's arrival there were two of these long- 
legged birds of grace standing like ghosts on the 
chimney top. Faith, but they 've kept the house 
on its legs to this very day, for you may see it 
any time you pass through Bruges, as it stands 
there yet, only it is turned into a brewery of 
strong Flemish beer, — at least it was so when I 
came that way after the battle of Waterloo. 
My grandfather eyed the house curiously as he 



56 THE BOLD DRAGOON. 

approached. It might not have altogether struck 
his fancy, had he not seen in large letters over 
the door, 

H££R VERKOOPT MAN GOEDEN DRANK. 

My grandfather had learnt enough of the lan- 
guage to know that the sign promised good 
liquor. " This is the house for me," said he, 
stopping short before the door. 

The sudden appearance of a dashing dragoon 
was an event in an old inn, frequented only by 
the peaceful sons of traffic. A rich burgher of 
Antwerp, a stately ample man in a broad Fle- 
mish hat, and who was the great man, and great 
patron of the establishment, sat smoking a clean 
long pipe on one side of the door ; a fat little 
distiller of Greneva, from Schiedam, sat smoking 
on the other ; and the bottle-nosed host stood in 
the door, and the comely hostess, in crimped 
cap, beside him ; and the hostess's daughter, a 
plump Flanders lass, with long gold pendants in 
her ears, was at a side window. 



THE BOLD DRAGOON. 57 

" Humph !" said the rich burgher of Ant- 
werp, with a sulky glance at the stranger. 

" Der duyvel !" said the fat little distiller of 
Schiedam. 

9 

The landlord saw, with the quick glance of a 
publican, that the new guest was not at all, 
at all to the taste of the old ones ; and, to tell 
the truth, he did not himself like my grand- 
father's saucy eye. He shook his head. " Not • 
a garret in the house but was full." 

" Not a garret !" echoed the landlady. 

" Not a garret !" echoed the daughter. 

The burgher of Antwerp, and the little di- 
stiller of Schiedam, continued to smoke their 
pipes sullenly, eying the enemy askance from 
under their broad hats, but said nothing. 

My grandfather was not a man to be brow- 
beaten. He threw the reins on his horse's neck, 
cocked his head on one side, stuck one arm a- 
kimbo, " Faith and troth !" said he, " but I '11 
sleep in this house this very night." — ^As he said 
this he gave a slap on his thigh, by way of em- 
phasis — the slap went to the landlady's heart. 



58 THE BOLD DRAGOON. 

He followed up the vow by jumping off his 
horse, and making his way past the staring Myn- 
heers into the public room. — May be you 've been 
in the bar-room of an old Flemish inn — faith, but 
a handsome chamber it was as you 'd wish to see ; 
with a brick floor, and a great fire-place, with the 
whole Bible history in glazed tiles ; and then the 
mantel-piece, pitching itself head foremost out 
of the wall, with a whole regiment of cracked 
teapots and earthen jugs paraded on it ; not to 
mention half a dozen great Delft platters, hung 
about the room by way of pictures; and the 
little bar in one comer, and the bouncing bar- 
maid inside of it, with a red calico cap and 
yellow ear-drops. 

My grandfather snapped his fingers over his 
head, as he cast an eye round the room — " Faith 
this is the very house I Ve been looking after," 
said he. 

There was some further show of resistance on 
the part of the garrison ; but my grandfather was 
an old soldier, and an Irishman to boot, and not 
easily repulsed, especially after he had got into 



THE BOLD DRAGOON. 59 

the fortress. So he blarneyed the landlord, kissed 
the landlord's wife, tickled the landlord's daugh- 
ter, chucked the bar-^maid under the chin ; and it 
was agreed on all hands that it would be a thou- 
sand pities, and a burning shame into the bargain, 
to turn such a bold dragoon into the streets. So 
they laid their heads together, that is to say, my 
grandfather and the landlady, and itwas at length 
agreed to accommodate him with an old cham- 
ber that had been for some time shut up. 

*^ Some say it 's haunted," whispered the land- 
lord's daughter ; " but you are a bold dragoon, 
and I dare say don't fear ghosts." 

" The divil a bit !" said my grandfather, 
pinching her plump cheek. " But if I should 
be troubled by ghosts, I 've been to the Red Sea 
in my time, and have a pleasant way of laying 
them, my darling." 

And then he whispered something to the girl 
which made her laugh, and give him a good- 
humoured box on the ear. In short, there was 
nobody knew better how to make his way among 
the petticoats than my grandfather. 



60 THE BOLD DKAGOON. 

In a little while, as was his usual way, he 
took complete possession of the house, swagger- 
ing all over it ; into the stable to look after his 
horse, into the kitchen to look after his supper. 
He had something to say or do with every one ; 
smoked with the Dutchmen, drank with the 
Germans, slapped the landlord on the shoulder, 
romped with his daughter and the bar-maid : — 
never since the days of Alley Croaker had such 
a rattling blade been seen. The landlord stared 
at him with astc^shment ; the landlord's 
daughter hung her head and giggled whenever 
he came near; and as he swaggered along the 
corridor, with his sword trailing by his side, the 
maids looked after him, and whispered to one 
another, " What a proper man !" 

At supper, my grandfather took command of 
the table-d'hote as though he had been at home ; 
helped every body, not forgetting himself ; talked 
with every one, whether he understood their 
language or not ; and made hiis way into the 
intimacy of the rich burgher of Antwerp, who 
had never been known to be sociable with any 



THE BOLD DRAGOON. 61 

one during his life. In fact, he revolutionized 
the whole establishment, and gave it such a 
rouse that the very house reeled with it. He 
outsat every one at table excepting the little 
fat distiller of Schiedam, who sat soaking a 
long time before he broke forth ; but when he 
did, he was a very devil incarnate. He took a 
violent affection for my grandfather; so they 
sat drinking and smoking, and telling stories, 
and singing Dutch and Irish songs, without un- 
derstanding a word each other said, until the 
little Hollander was fairly swamped with his 
own gin and water, and carried off to bed, 
whooping and hiccuping, and trolling the bur- 
then of a low Dutch love song. 

Well, gentlemen, my grandfather was shown 
to his quarters up a large staircase, composed of 
loads of hewn timber ; and through long rig- 
marole passages, hung with blackened paintings 
of fish, and fruit, and game, and country frolics, 
and huge kitchens, and portly Burgomasters, 
such as you see about old-fashioned Flemish 
inns, till at length he arrived at his room. 



62 THE BOLD DRAGOON. 

An oM-times chamber it was, sure enough, 
and crowded with all kinds of trumpery. It 
looked like an infirmary for decayed and super- 
annuated furniture, where every thing diseased 
or disabled was sent to nurse or to be forgotten. 
Or rather it might be taken for a general con- 
gress of old legitimate moveables, where every 
kind and coimtry had a representative. No two 
chairs were alike. Such high backs and low 
backs, and leather bottoms, and worsted bottoms, 
and straw bottoms, and no bottoms ; and cracked 
marble tables with curiously-carved legs, holding 
balls in their claws, as though they were going 
to play at nine-pins. 

My grandfather made a bow to the motley 
assemblage as he entered, and, having imdressed 
himself, placed his light in the fire-place, asking 
pardon of the tongs, which seemed to be making 
love to the shovel in the chimney comer, and 
whispering soft nonsense in its ear. 

The rest of the guests were by this time sound 
asleep, for your Mynheers are huge sleepers. 
The house-maids, one by one, crept up yawn- 



THE BOLD DRAGOON. 6S 

ing to their attics^ and not a female head in the 
inn was laid on a pillow that night without 
dreaming of the bold dragoon. 

My grandfather, for his part, got into bed, 
and drew over him one of those great bags of 
down, under which they smother a man in the 
Low Countries ; and there he lay, melting between 
two feather beds, like an anchovy sandwich be- 
tween two slices of toast and butter. He was 
a warm-complexioned man, and this smothering 

played the very deuce with him. So, sure 
enough, in a little time it seemed as if a legion 
of imps were twitching at him, and all the 
blood in his veins was in a fever heat. 

He lay still, however, until all the house was 
quiet, excepting the snoring of the Mynheers 
from the different chambers ; who answered one 
another in^ all kinds of tones and cadences, like 
so many bullfrogs in a swamp. The quieter the 
house became, the more imquiet became my 
grandfather. He waxed warmer and warmer, 
until at length the bed became too hot to hold 
him. 



64 THE BOLD DRAGOON. 

" May be the maid had warmed it too much ?" 
said the curious gentleman, inquiringly. 

" I rather think the contrary," replied the 
Irishman. — " But, be that as it may, it grew too 
hot for my grandfather." 

" Faith, there 's no standing this any longer," 
says he. So he jumped out of bed, and went 
strolling about the house. 

" What for ?" said the inquisitive gentleman. 
*' Why to cool himself, to be sure — or perhaps 
to find a more comfortable bed — or perhaps — 
But no matter what he went for — he never men- 
tioned — and there's no use in taking up our 
time in conjecturing." 

Well, my grandfather had been for some time 
absent from his room, and was returning, per- 
fectly cool, when just as he reached the door he 
heard a strange noise within. He paused and 
listened. It seemed as if some one were trying 
to hum a tune in defiance of the asthma. He 
recollected the report of the room being haunted ; 
but he was no believer in ghosts, so he pushed 
the door gently open and peeped in. 



THE BOLD DRAGOON. 65 

Egad, gentlemen, there was a gambol carrying 
on within enough to have astonished St. Anthony 
himsel£ By the light of the fire he saw a pale, 
weazen-faced fellow in a long flannel gown and 
a tall white night-cap with a tassel to it, who 
sat by the fire with a bellows under his arm by 
way of bagpipe, from which he forced the asthmar- 
tical music that had bothered my grandfather. 
As he played, too, he kept twitching about with 
a thousand queer contortions, nodding his head, 
and bobbing about hi& tasselled night-cap. 

My grandfather thought this very odd and 
mighty presumptuous, and was Bbout to demand 
what business he had to play his wind instru-* 
ment in another gentleman's quarters, when a 
new cause of astonishment met his eye. From 
the opposite side of the room a long-backed, 
bandy-legged chair, covered with leather, and 
studded all over in a coxcombical fashion with 
little brass nails, got suddenly into motion, thrust 
out first a claw foot, then a crooked arm, and at 
length, making a leg, slided gracefully up to an 
easy chair of tarnished brocade, with a hole in 

VOL. I. F 



66 THE BOLD DRAGOON. 

its bottom, and led it gallantly out in a ghostly 
minuet about the floor. 

The musician now played fiercer and fiercer, 
and bobbed his head . and his night-cap about 
like mad. By degrees the dancing mania seentied 
to seize upon all the other pieces of furniture. 
The antique, long-bodied chairs paired ofi* in 
couples and led down a country dance ; a three- 
legged stool danced a hornpipe, though horribly 
puzzled by its supernumerary leg; while the 
amorous tongs seized the shovel round the waist, 
and whirled it about the room in a German 
waltz. In short, all the moveables got in mo- 
tion ; pirouetting, hands across, right and left, 
like so many devils : all except a great dothes- 
press, which kept curtsying and curtsying, 
in a comer, like a dowager, in exquisite time to 
the music ; being rather too corpulent to dance, 
or, perhaps, at a loss for a partner. 

My grandfather concluded the latter to be the 
reason ; so being, like a true Irishman, devoted 
to the sex, and at all times ready for a frolic, he 
bounced into the room, called to the musician 



THE BOLD DRAGOON. 67 

to Strike up Paddy O'RaflFerty, capered up to 
the clothes-press, and seized upon two handles 

to lead her out: when — ^whirr! the whole 

revel was at an end. The chairs, tables, tongs, 
and shovel slunk in an instant as quietly into 
their places as if nothing had happened, and the 
musician vanished up the chimney, leaving the 
bellows behind him in his hurry. My grand-* 
father found himself seated in the middle of the 
floor with the clothes-press sprawling before 
him, and the two handles jerked off, and in his 
hands. 

" Then, after all, this was a mere dream T 
said the inquisitive gentleman. 

" The divil a bit of a dream !" replied tie 
Irishman. " There never was a truer fact in 
this world. Faith, I should have liked to see 
any man tell my grandfather it was a dream." 

Well, gentlemen, as the clothes-press was a 
mighty heavy body, and my grandfather like- 
wise, particularly in rear, you may easily sup- 
pose that two such heavy bodies coming to the 
ground would make a bit of a noise. Faith, the 

F 2 



68 THE BOLD DRAGOON". 

old -mansion' shook as though it had mistaken 
it for an earthquake. The whole garrison was 
alarmed. The landlord, who slept below, hur- 
ried up with a candle to inquire the cause, but 
with all his haste his daughter had hurried to 
the scene of uproar before him. The landlord 
was followed by the landlady, who was followed 
by the bouncing bar-maid, who was followed by 
the simpering chambermaids, all holding to- 
gether, as well as they could, such garments a^ 
they had first lain hands on; but all in a ter- 
rible hurry to see what the deuce was to pay in 
the chamber of the bold Dragoon. 

My grandfather related the marvellous scene 
he had witnessed, and the broken handles of the 
prostriate clothes-press bore testimony to the fact- 
There was no contesting such "evidence ; parti- 
cularly with a lad of my grandfather's com- 
plexion, who seemed able to make good every 
word either with swoid or shiUelah. So the 
landlord scratched his head and looked silly, 
as he was apt to do when puzzled. The land- 
lady scratched — no, she did not scratch her head. 



THE BOLD DRAGOON. 69 

but. she knit her brow, and did 7\pt seem half 
pleased with the explanation. TBut the land- 
lady's daughter corroborated it by recollecting 
that the last person who had dwelt in that 
chamber was a famous juggler who had died of 
St. Vitus's. dance, and had no doubt infected all 
the. furniture. 

This set all things to rights, particularly when 
the chambermaids declared that they had all 
witnessed strange carryings on in that room ; and 
as they declared this " upon their honours," 
there could not remain a doubt upon the subject. 

" And did your grandfather go to bed again 
in that room ?" said the inquisitive gentleman. 

" That 's more than I can tell. Where he 
passed the rest of the night was a secret he never 
disclosed. In fact, though he had seen much 
service, he was but indifferently acquainted with 
geography, and apt to make blunders in his 
travels about inns at night which it would have 
puzzled him sadly to account for in the morning." 

" Was he ever apt to walk in his sleep ?" said 
the knowing old g^itleman. ^ 

« Never, that I heard of." 



70 THE BOLD DllAGOON. 

There was a little pause after this rigmarole 
Irish romance,* when the old gentleman in the 
haunted head observed, that the stories hitherto 
related had rather a burlesque tendency. " I re- 
collect an adventure, however," added he, " which 
I heard of during a residence at Paris, for the 
truth of which I can undertake to vouch, and 
which is of a very grave and singular nature." 



THE ADVENTURE OF THE GER- 
MAN STUDENT. 



On a stormy night, in the tempestuous times 
of the French revolution, a young Grerman was 
returning to his lodgings, at a late hour, across 
the old part of Paris. The lightning gleamed, 
and the loud claps of thunder rattled through 
the lofty, narrow streets — but I should first tell 
you something about this young German. 

Gottfried Wolfgang was a yoimg man of good 
family. He had studied for some time at Got- 
tingen, but being of a visionary and enthusiastic 
character, he had wandered into those wild and 
speculative doctrines which have so often be- 
wildered German students. His secluded life, 
his intense application, and the singular nature 



72 THE ADVENTURE OF 

of his studies, had an effect on both mind and 
body. His health was impaired ; his imagina- 
tion diseased. He had been indulging in fan- 
ciful speculations on spiritual essences until, like 
Swedenborg, he had an ideal world of his own 
around him. He took up a notion, I do not 
know from what cause, that there was an evil 
influence hanging over - him ; an evil genius or 
spirit seeking to ensnare him and ensure his per- 
dition. Such an idea working on his melan- 
choly temperament produced the most gloomy 
effects. He became haggard and desponding. 
His friends discovered the mental malady that 
was preying upon him, and determined that the 
best cure was a change of scene ; he was sent, 
therefore, to finish his studies amidst the i^len- 
dours and gaieties of Paris. 

Wolfgang arrived at Paris at the breaking 
out of the revolution. The popular delirium 
at first caught his eiribusiastic mind, and he 
was captivated by the political and philosophical 
theories 'of the day: but the scenes of blood 
which followed shocked his sensitive nature; 



THE GERMAN STUDENT. 73 

disgusted him with society and the world, and 
made him more than ever a recluse. He shiit 
himself up in a solitary apartment in the Pays 
LatiTif the quarter of students. There in a 
gloomy street not far from the monastic walls of 
the Sorbonne, he pursued his favourite specula- 
tions. Sometimes he spent hours together in 
the great libraries of Paris, those catacombs of de- 
parted authors, rummaging among their hoards 
of dusty and obsolete works in quest of food for 
his unhealthy appetite. He was, in a manner, 
a literary goul, feeding in the charnel-house of 
decayed literature. 

Wolfgang, though solitary and recluse, was 
of an ardent temperament, but for a time it ope- 
rated merely upon his imagination. He was 
too shy and ignorant of the world to make any 
advances to the fair, but he was a passionate ad-; 
mirer of female beauty, and in his lonely chamber 
would often lose himself ju reveries on forms and 
fioces which he had seen, and his fancy would 
deck out images of loveliness far surpassing th^ 
reality. 



74 THE ADVENTURE OF 

While his mind was in this excited and sub- 
limated state, he had a dream which produced 
an extraordinary effect upon him. It was of a 
female face of transcendent beauty. So strong 
was the impression it made, that he dreamt of it 
again and again. It haunted his thoughts by 
day, his slimibers by night ; in fine he became 
passionately enamoured of this shadow of a 
dream. This lasted so long, that it became, one 
of those fixed ideas which haimt the minds of 
melancholy men, and are at times^ mistaken 
for madness. 

Such was Gottfried Wolfgang, and such his 
situation at the time I mentioned. He was re- 
turning home late one stormy night, through 
some of the old and gloomy streets of the Ma- 
raiSf the ancient part of Paris. The loud claps 
of thimder rattled among the high houses of 
the narrow streets. He came to the Place de 
Gr^ve, the square where public executions are 
performed. The lightning quivered about the 
pinnacles of the ancient H6tel de Ville, and shed 
flickering gleams over the open space in firont. 



THE GERMAN STUDENT. 75 

As Wolfgang was crossing the square, he shrunk 
back with horror at finding himself close by the 
guillotine. It was the height of the reign of 
terror, when this dreadful instrument of death 
stood ever ready, and its scaffold was continually 
running with the blood of the virtuous and the 
brave. It had that very day been actively em- 
ployed in the work of carnage, and there it stood 
in grim array amidst a silent and sleeping city, 
waiting for fresh victims. 

Wolfgang's heart sickened within him, and 
he was turning shuddering from the horrible 
engine, when he beheld a shadowy form cower- 
ing as it were at the foot of the steps which 
led up to the scaffold. A succession of vivid 
flashes of lightning revealed it more distinctly. 
It was a female figure, dressed in black. She 
was seated on one of the lower steps of the 
scaffold, leaning forward, her face hid in her 
lap, and her long dishevelled tresses hanging to 
the groimd, streaming with the rain which fell 
in torrents. Wolfgang paused. There was 
something atrful in this solitary monument of 



76 THE ADVENTURE OF 

WO. The female had the appearance of being 
above the common order. He knew the times 
to be full of vicissitude, and that many a fair 
head, which had once been pillowed on down, now 
wandered houseless. Perhaps this was some 
poor mourner whom the dreadful axe had ren- 
dered desolate, and who sat here heartbroken 
on the strand of existence, from which all that 
was dear to her had been launched into eternity. 

He approached, and addressed her in the ac- 
cents of sympathy. She raised her head and 
gazed wildly at him. What was his astonish- 
ment at beholding, by the bright glare of the 
lightning, the very face which had haimted him 
in his dreams. It was pale and disconsolate, 
but ravishingly beautiful. 

Trembling with violent and conflicting emo- 
tions, Wolfgang again accosted her. He spoke 
something of her being exposed at such an 
hour of the night, and to the fury of such a 
storm, and offered to conduct her to her friends. 
She pointed to the guillotine with a gesture of 
dreadful signification. 



THE GERMAN STUDENT. 77 

" I have no friend on earth !" said she, 

*• But you have a home," said Wolfgang, 

** Yes— in the grave !" 

The heart of the student melted at the words. 

" If a stranger dare make an offer," said he, 
" without danger of being misimderstood, I 
would offer my humble dwelling as a shelter ; 
myself as a devoted friend. I am friendless 
myself in Paris, and a stranger in the land ; but 
if my life could be of service, it is at your dis- 
posal, and should be sacrificed before harm or 
indignity should come to you." 

There was an honest earnestness in the young 
man's manner that had its effect. His foreign 
accent, too, was in his favour ; it showed him 
not to be a hackneyed inhabitant of Paris. In- 
deed there is an eloquence in true enthusiasm 
that is not to be doubted. The homeless stranger 
confided herself implicitly to the protection of 
the student. 

He supported her faltering steps across the 
Pont Neuf, and by the place where the statue 
of Henry the Fourth had been overthrown by 



78 THE ADVENTUTRE OP 

the populace. The storm had abated, and the 
thunder rumbled at a distance. All Paris was 
quiet; that great volcano of human passion 
shimbered for a while, to gather fresh strength 
for the next day's eruption. The student con- 
ducted his charge through the ancient streets of 
the Tays Latin, and by the dusky walls of the 
Sorbonne to the great, dingy hotel whidi he in- 
habited. The old portress who admitted them 
stared with surprise at the unusual sight of the 
melancholy Wolfgang with a female companion. 

On entering his apartment, the student, for the 
first time, blushed at the scantiness and indif- 
ference of his dwelling. He had but one chamber 
—an old fashioned saloon— heavily carved and 
fantastically furnished with the remains of former 
magnificence, for it was one of those hotels in 
the quarter of the Luxembourg palace which had 
once belonged to nobility. It was lumbered 
with books and papers, and all the usual appa- 
ratus of a student, and his bed stood in a recess 
at one end. 

When hghts were brought, and Wolfgang 



;THE GERMAN STUDENT. 79 

had a better opportunity of contemplating the 
stranger, he was more than ever intoxicated by 
her beauty* Her face was pale, but of a daz- 
zling fairness, set off by a profusion of raven 
hair that hung clustering about it. Her eyes were 
large and brilliant, with a singular expression: 
that approached almost to wildness. As far as 
her black dress permitted her shape to be seen,* 
it was of perfect symmetry. Her whole appear- 
ance was highly striking, though she was dressed 
in the simplest style. The only thing approach- 
ing to an ornament which she wore wasabroad, 
black band roimd her neck, clasped by diamonds. 
The perplexity now commenced with the stu- 
dent how to dispose of the helpless being thus 
thrown upon his protection. He thought of 
abandoning his chamber to her, and seeking 
shelter for himself elsewhere. Still he was so 
fascinated by her charms, there seemed to be 
such a spell upon his thoughts and senses, that 
he could not tear himself from her presence. 
Her manner, too, was singular and unaccount- 



80 THE ADVENTURE OF ^ 

able. She spoke no more of the guillotine. Her 
grief had abated. The attentions of the student 
had first won her confidence, and then, appa- 
rently, her heart* She was evidently an enthu- 
siast like himself, and enthusiasts soon under- 
stand each other. 

In the infatuation of the moment Wolfgang 
avowed his passion for her. He told her the 
story of his mysterious dream, and how she had 
possessed his heart before he had even seen her. 
She was strangely affected by his recital, and ac- 
knowledged to have felt an impulse toward him 
equally imaccountable. It was the time for wild 
theory and wild actions. Old prejudices and 
superstitions were done away ; every thing was 
under the sway of the " Goddess of reason." 
Among other rubbish of the old times, the forms 
and ceremonies of marriage began to be con- 
sidered superfluous bonds for honourable minds. 
Social compacts were the vogue. Wolfgang was 
too much of a theorist not to be tainted by the 
liberal doctrines of the day. 



^ THE GERMAN STUDENT. 81 

" Why should we separate ?" said he : " our 
hearts are united ; in the eye of reason and honour 
we are as one. What need is there of sordid 
forms to bind high souls together ?" 

The stranger listened with emotion : she had 
evidently received illumination at the same 
school. 

" You have no home nor family," continued 
he ; " let me be every thing to you, or rather let 
us be every thing to one another. If form is 
necessary, form shall be observed — there is my 
hand. I pledge myself to you for ever." 

" For ever ?" said the stranger, solemnly. 

" For ever !" repeated Wolfgang. 

The stranger clasped the hand extended to 
her : " Then I am yours," murmured she, and 
sunk upon his bosom. 

The next morning the student left his l)ride 
sleeping, and sallied forth at an early hour to 
seek more spacious apartments, suitable to the 
change in his situation. When he returned, he 
found the stranger lying with her head hanging 
over the bed, and one arm thrown over it. He 

VOL. I. G 



82 THE ADVENTURE OF 

spoke to her, but received no reply. He ad- 
vanced to awaken her from her uneasy posture. 
On taking her hand, it was cold — there was no 
pulsation — her face was pallid and ghastly. — 
In a word — she was a corpse. 

Horrified and frantic, he alarmed the house. 
A scene of confusion ensued. The police was 
summoned. As the officer of police entered the 
room, he started back on beholding the corpse. 

" Great heaven !" cried he, " how did this 
woman come here ?" 

" Do you know any thing about her ?" said 
Wolfgang, eagerly. 

" Do I ?" exclaimed the police officer : " she 
was guillotined yesterday !" 

He stepped forward ; imdid the black collar 
round the neck of the corpse, and the head 
rolled on the floor ! 

The student burst into a frenzy. " The fiend ! 
the fiend has gained possession of me !" shrieked 
he : ^' I am lost for ever !" 

They tried to soothe him, but in vain. He was 
possessed with the frightful belief that an evil 



THE GERMAN STUDENT. 83 

spirit had reanimated the dead body to ensnare 
him. He went distracted, and died in a mad- 
house. 



Here the old gentleman with the haunted 
head finished his narrative. 

** And is this really a fact ?" said the in- 
quisitive gentleman. 

^' A fact not to be doubted," replied the other. 
.^^ I had it from the best authority. The student 
told it me himself. I saw him in a madhouse 
at Paris*." 

* The latter part of the above story is founded on an 
anecdote related to me^ and said to exist in print in French. 
I have not met with it in print. 



G 2 



THE ADVENTUEE OF THE 
MYSTEEIOUS PICTURE- 



As one story of the kind produces another, 
and as all the company seemed fully engrossed 
by the subject, and disposed to bring their re- 
latives and ancestors upon the scene, there is no 
•knowing how many more strange adventures we 
might have heard, had not a corpulent old fox- 
himter, who had slept soimdly through the 
whole, now suddenly awakened, with a loud and 
long-drawn yawn. The soimd broke the charm : 
the ghosts took to flight as though it had been 
cock-crowing, and there was an imiversal move 
for bed. 

" And now for the haunted chamber," said 
the Irish Captain, taking his candle. 

" Ay, who 's to be the hero of the night ?" 
said the gentleman with the ruined head. 

" That we shall see in the morning," said the 



THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE. 85 

old gentleman with the nose : " whoever looks 
pale and grizzly will have seen the ghost." 

" Well, gentlemen," said the Baronet, " there's 
many a true thing said in jest — In fact, one of 
you will sleep in the room to-night " 

" What — a haunted room ? — a haunted room ? 
— I claim the adventure — and I — and I — and 
I," said a dozen guests, talking and laughing at 
the salme time. 

" No, no," said mine host, " there is a secret 
about one of my rooms on which I feel disposed 
to try an experiment : so, gentlemen, none of 
you shall know who has the haunted chamber 
until circumstances reveal it. I will not even 
know it myself, but will leave it to chance and 
the allotment of the housekeeper. At the same 
time, if it will be any satisfaction to you, I will 
observe, for the honour of my paternal mansion, 
that there's scarcely a chamber in it but is well 
worthy of being haunted." 

We now separated for the night, and each 
went to his allotted room. Mine was in one 
wing of the building, and I could not but smile 



86 THE ADVENTURE OF 

at the resemblance in style to those eventful 
apartments described in the tales of the supper 
table. It was spacious and gloomy, decorated 
with lamp-black portraits ; a bed of ancient 
damask, with a tester sufficiently lofty to grace 
a couch of state, and a number of massive pieces 
of old-fashioned furniture. I drew a great claw- 
footed arm-chair before the wide fire-place; 
stirred up the fire; sat looking into it, and 
musing upon the odd storieft I had heard, until, 
partly overcome by the fatigue of the day's 
hunting, and partly by the wine and wassail of 
mine host, I fell asleep in my chair. 

The imeasiness of my position made my slum- 
ber troubled, and laid me at the mercy of all 
kinds of wild and fearful dreams. Now it was 
that my perfidious dinner and supper rose in re- 
bellion against my peace. I was hag-ridden by 
a fat saddle of mutton ; a plum pudding weighed 
like lead upon my conscience ; the merry-thought 
of a capon filled me with horrible suggestions ; 
and a deviled-leg of a turkey stalked in all 
kinds of diabolical shapes through my imagina- 



THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE. 87 

tion. In short, I had a violent fit of the night- 
mare. Some strange indefinite evil seemed hang- 
ing over me that I could not avert ; something 
terrible and loathsome oppressed me that I could 
not shake off. I was conscious of being asleep, 
and strove to rouse myself, but every effort 
redoubled the evil; lAitil gasping, struggling, 
almost strangling, I suddenly sprang bolt upright 
in my chair and awoke. 

The light on the mantel-piece had burnt low, 
and the wick was divided; there was a great 
winding-sheet made by the dripping wax on the 
side towards me. The disordered taper emitted 
a broad flaring flame, and threw a strong light 
on a painting over the fire-place which I had 
not hitherto observed. It consisted merely of a 
head, or rather a face, that appeared to be staring 
full upon me, and with an expression that was 
startling. It was without a frame, and at the 
first glance I could hardly persuade myself that 
it was not a real face thrusting itself out of the 
dark oaken pannel. I sat in my chair gazing 
at it, and the more I gazed the more it dis- 



88 THE ADVENTURE OF 

quieted me. I had never before been affected 
in the same way by any painting. The emo- 
tions it caused were strange and indefinite. 
They were something like what I have heard 
ascribed to the eyes of the basilisk, or like that 
mysterious influence in reptiles termed fascina- 
tion. I passed my hand over my eyes several 
times, as if seeking instinctively to brush away 
the illusion — in vain. They instantly reverted 
to the picture, and its chilling, creeping influence 
over my flesh and blood was redoubled. I looked 
round the room on other pictures, either to divert 
my attention or to see whether the same eflfect 
would be produced by them. Some of them 
were grim enough to produce the effect, if the 
mere grimness of the painting produced it. — No 
such thing — my eye passed over them all with 
perfect indifference, but the moment it reverted 
to this visage over the fire-place, it was as if an 
electric shock darted through me. The other 
pictures were dim and faded, but this one pro- 
truded from a plain back groimd in the 
strongest relief, and with wonderful truth of 



THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE. 89 

ccdouring. The expression was that of agony — 
the agony of intense bodily pain ; but a menace 
scowled upon the brow, and a few sprinklings of 
blood added to its ghastliness. Yet it was not all 
these characteristics ; it was some horror of the 
mind, some inscrutable antipathy awakened by 
this picture, which harrowed up my feelings, 

I tried to persuade myself that this was chi- 
merical ; that my brain was confused by the 
fumes of mine host's good cheer, and in some 
measure by the odd stories about paintings 
which had been told at supper. I determined to 
shake off these vapours of the mind ; rose from 
my chair ; walked about the room ; snapped my 
fingers ; rallied myself ; laughed aloud. — It was 
a forced laugh, and the echo of it in the old cham- 

9 

ber jarred upon my ear. — I walked to the yrmh 
dow, and tried to discern the landscape through 
the glass. It was pitch darkness, and howling 
storm without ; and as I heard the wind moan 
among the trees, I caught a reflection of this 
accursed visage in the pane of glass, as though it 
were staring through the window at me. Even 
the reflection of it was thrilling. 



90 THE ADVENTURE OF 

How was this vile nervous fit, for such I now 
persuaded myself it was, to be conquered ?. I 
determined to force myself not to look at the 
painting, but to imdress quickly and get into 
bed. — I began to undress, but in spite of every 
effort I could not keep myself from stealing a 
glance every now and then at the picture ; and 
a glance was now sufficient to distress me. 
Even when my back was turned to it, the idea 
of this strange face behind me, peeping over my 
shoulder, was insupportable. I threw eff my 
clothes and hurried into bed, but still this 
visage gazed upon me. I had a full view of it 
from my bed, and for some time could not take 
my eyes from it. I had grown nervous to a dis- 
mal degree. I put out the light, and tried to 
forc6 myself to sleep — all in vain. The fire 
gleaming up a little threw an imcertain light 
about the room, leaving however the region of 
the picture in deep shadow. What, thought I, 
if this be the chamber about which mine host 
spoke as having a mystery reigning over it ? I 
had taken his words merely as spoken in jest ; 



THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE. 91 

might they have a real import ? I looked around. 
— The faintly-lighted apartment had all the qua- 
lifications requisite for a haunted chamber. It 
b^an in my infected imagination to assume 
strange appearances — the old portraits turned 
paler and paler, and blacker and blacker ; the 
streaks of light and shadow thrown among the 
quaint articles of furniture gave them more sin- 
gtdar shapes and characters. — There was a huge 
dark clothes' press of antique form, gorgeous in 
brass and lustrous with wax, that began to grow 
oppressive to me. 

" Am I then," thought I, " indeed the hero of 
the haunted room ? Is there really a spell laid 
upon me, or is this all some .contrivance of mine 
host to raise a laugh at my expense ?" The idea 
of being hag-ridden by my own fancy all night, 
and then bantered on my haggard looks the 
next day, was intolerable; but the very idea 
was sufficient to produce the effect, and to ren- 
der me still more nervous. — " Piatf'— said I, 
" it can be no such thing. How could my 
worthy host imagine that I, or any man, would 



92 THE ADVENTURE OF 

be SO worried by a mere picture ? It is my own 
diseased imagination that torments me." 

I turned in bed, and shifted from side to 
side to try to fall asleep ; but all in vain ; when 
one cannot get asleep by lying quiet, it is sel- 
dom that tossing about will effect the purpose. 
The fire gradually went out, and left the room 
in darkness. Still I had the idea of that inex- 
plicable countenance gazing and keeping watch 
upon me through the gloom — nay, what was 
worse, the very darkness seemed to magnify its 
terrors. It was like having an imseen enemy 
hanging about one in the night. Instead of 
having one picture now to worry me, I had a 
hundred. I fancied it in every direction — 
" And there it is," thought I, " and there ! and 
there! with its horrible and mysterious ex- 
pression still gazing and gazing on me ! No — 
if I must suffer this strange and dismal in- 
fluence, it were better face a single foe than 
thus be haunted by a thousand images of it." 

Whoever has been in a state of nervous 
agitation, must know that the logger it continues 



THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE. 93 

the more uncontrollable it grows. The very air 
of the chamber seemed at length infected by 
the baleful presence of this picture. I fancied 
it hovering over me. I almost felt the fearful 
visage from the wall approaching my face — it 
seemed breathing upon me. " This is not to be 
borne," said I at length, springing out of bed : 
,"I can stand this no longer — I shall only tumble 
and toss about here all night ; make a very spectre 
of myself, and become the hero of the haunted 
chamber in good earnest. — ^Whatever be the ill 
consequence, I '11 quit this cursed room and seek 
a night's rest elsewhere — they can but laugh 
at me, at all events, and they '11 be sure to have 
the laugh upon me if I pass a sleepless night, 
and show them a haggard and wo-begone visage 
in the morning." 

All this was half-muttered to myself as I 
hastily slipped on my clothes, which having done, 
I groped my way out of the room, and down 
stairs to the drawing-room. Here, after tum- 
bling over two or three pieces of furniture, I 
made out to reach a sofa, and stretching myself 



94 THE ADVENTURE OF 

upon it, determined to bivouac there for the 
night. The moment I found myself out of the 
neighbourhood of that strange picture, it seemed 
as if the charm were broken. All its influence 
was at an end. I felt assured that it was con- 
fined to its own dreary chamber, for I had, with 
a sort of instinctive caution, turned the key 
when I closed the door. I soon calmed down, 
therefore, into a state of tranquillity ; from 
that into a drowsiness, and, finally, into a deep 
sleep ; out of which I did not awake until the 

• « 

housemaid, with her besom and her matin song, 
came to put the room in order. She stared at 
finding me stretched upon the sofa, but I pre- 
sume circumstances of the kind were not un- 
common after hunting dinners in her master's 
bachelor establishnient, for she went on with her 
song and her work, and took no further heed 
of me. 

I had an unconquerable repugnance to return 
to my chamber ; so I found my way to the but- 
ler's quarters, made my toilet in the best way 
circumstances would permit, and was among 






THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE. 95 

the first to appear at the breakfast-table. Our 
breakfast was a substantial fox-huntefs repast, 
and the company generally assembled at it. 
When ample justice had been done to the tea, 
coffee, cold meats, and humming ale, for all 

« 

th^se were furnished in abundance, according to 
the tastes of the different guests, the conversation 
began to break out with all the liveliness and 
freshness of morning mirth. 

" But who is the hero of the haunted chamber, 
who has seen the ghost last night?" ^aid the 
inquisitive gentleman, rolling h|s lobster eyes 
about the table. 

The question set every tongue in motion ; a 
vast deal of bantering, criticising of counte- 
nances, of mutual accusation and retort, took 
place. Some had drunk deep, and some were 
imsbaven; so that there were suspicious faces 
enough in the assembly. I alone could not 
enter with ease and vivacity into the joke — I 
felt tongue-tied, embarrassed. A recoUeetion ci 
what I had seen and felt the preceding night 
still haunted my mind. It seemed as if the 



96 THE ADVENTURE OF 

mysterious picture still held a thrall upon me. 
I thought also that our host's eye was turned 
on me with an air of curiosity. In short, I was 
conscious that I was the hero of the night, and 
felt as if every one might read it in my looks. 
The joke, howevei; passed over, and no suspicion 
seemed to attach to me. I was just congratu- 
lating myself on my escape, when a servant 
came in, saying, that the gentleman who had 
slept on the sofa in the drawing-room had left 
his watch under <me of the pillows. My re- 
peater was in his hand. 

" What !" said the inquisitive gentleman, " did 
any gentleman sleep on the sofa ?" 

" Soho ! soho ! a hare— a hare !" cried the old 
gentleman with the flexible nose. 

I could not avoid acknowledging the watch, 
and was rising in great confusion, when a bois- 
terous old squire who sat beside me exclaimed, 
slapping me on the shoulder, " 'Sblood, lad, 
thou'rt the man as has seen the ghost !" 

The attention of the company was immedi- 
ately turned to me : if my face had been pale 



THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE. 97 

the moment before, it now glowed almost to 
burning. I tried to laugh, but could only make 
a grimace, and found the muscles of my face 
twitching at sixes and sevens, and totally out of 
all control. 

It takes but little to raise a laugh among a set 
of fox-hunters ; there was a world of merriment 
and joking on the subject, and as I never re- 
lished a joke overmuch when it was at my own 
expense, I began to feel a little nettled. I tried 
to look cool and calm, and to restrain my pique ; 
but the coolness and calmness of a man in a pas- 
sion are confounded treacherous- 

" Gentlemen," said I, with a slight cocking of 
the chin and a bad attempt at a smile, " this is 
all very pleasant — ha! ha! — very pleasant — but 
I *d have you know, I am as little superstitious as 
any of you — ha ! ha ! — and as to any thing like 
timidity — you may smile, gentlemen, but I trust 
there 's no one here means to insinuate, that — 
as to a room's being haunted — I repeat, gentle- 
men (growing a little warm at seeing a cursed 
grin breaking out round me), as to a room's 

VOL. I. H 



98 THE ADVENTURE OF 

being haunted, I have as little faith in such silly 
stories as any one. But, since you put the mat- 
ter home to me, I will say that I have met 
with something in my room strange and in- 
explicable to me. (A shout of laughter.) Gen- 
tlemen, I am serious ; I know well what I am 
saying; I am calm, gentlemen (striking my 
fist upon the table) ; by Heaven, I am calm. I 
am neither trifling, nor do I wish to be trifled 
with. (The laughter of the company suppressed, 
and with ludicrous attempts at gravity.) There 
is a picture in the room in which I was put last 
night that has had an effect upon me the most 
singular and incomprehensible." 

" A picture?" said the old gentleman with the 
haimted head. " A picture !" cried the nar- 
rator with the nose. " A picture ! a picture !" 
echoed several voices. Here there was an im- 
govemable peal of laughter. I could not con- 
tain myself. I started up from ray seat ; looked 
round on the company with fiery indignation ; 
thrust both my hands into my pockets, and 
strode up to one of the windows as though I 



THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE. 99 

would have walked through it. I stopped short, 
looked out upon the landscape without distin- 
guishing a feature of it, and felt my gorge rising 
almost to suffocation. 

Mine host saw it was time to interfere. He 
had maintained an air of gravity through the 
whole of the scene ; and now stepped forth as 
if to shelter me from the overwhelming merri- 
ment of my companions. 

" Grentlemen," said he, " I dislike to spoil 
sport, but you have had your laugh, and the 
joke of the haunted chamber has been enjoyed. 
I must now take the part of my guest. I niust 
not only vindicate him from your pleasantries, 
but I must reconcile him to himself, for I sus- 
pect he is a little out of humour with his own 
feelings ; and, above all, I must crave his pardon 
for having made him the subject of a kind of 
experiment. Yes, gentlemen, there is something 
strange and peculiar in the chamber to which 
our friend was shown last night ; there is a pic- 

* tare in my house which possesses a singular and 

H 2 



100 THE ADVENTURE OF 

mysterious influence ; and with which there is 
connected a very curious story. It is a picture 
to which I attach a value from a variety of cir- 
cumstances ; and though I have often been 
tempted to destroy it, fi^3m the odd and uncom- 
fortable sensations which it produces in every one 
that beholds it, yet I have never been able to 
prevail upon myself to make the sacrifice. It 
is a picture I never like to look upon myself, and 
which is held in awe by all my servants. I have 
therefore banished it to a room but rarely used, 
and should have had it covered last night, had 
not the nature of our conversation, and the 
whimsical talk about ahaunted chamber, tempted 
me to let it remain, by way of experiment, to 
see whether a stranger, totally unacquainted 
with its story, would be affected by it." 

The words of the. baronet had turned every 
thought into a different channel. All were an- 
xious to hear the story of the mysterious picture ; 
and for myself, so strangely were my feelings 
interested, that I forgot to feel piqued at the 



THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE. 101 

experiment which my host had made upon my 
nerves, and joined eagerly in the general entreaty. 
As the morning was stormy, and denied all 
egress, my host was glad of any means of enter- 
taining his company ; so drawing his arm-chair 
towards the fire, he began. — 



THE ADVENTURE OF THE 
MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. 



Many years since, when I was a young man, 
and had just left Oxford, I was sent on the 
grand tour to finish my education. I believe my 
parents had tried in vain to inoculate me with 
wisdom ; so they sent me to mingle with society, 
in hopes I might take it the- natural way. Such, 
at least, appears the reason for which nine-tenths 
of our youngsters are sent abroad. In the course 
of my tour I remained some time at Venice. 
The romantic character of the place delighted 
me ; I was very much amused by the air of ^ad- 
venture and intrigue that prevailed in this 
region of masks and gondolas ; and I was ex- 
ceedingly smitten by a pair of languishing black 
eyes, that played upon my heart from under an 
Italian mantle : so I persuaded myself that I 



THE ADVENTURE OF, &C. 103 

was lingering at Venice to study men and man- 
ners ; — at least, I persuaded my friends so, and 
that answered all my purpose 

I was a little prone to be struck by peculiarities 
in character and conduct, and my imagination 
was so full of romantic associations with Italy, 
that I was always on the look out for adventure. 
Every thing chimed in with [such a humour 
in this old mermaid of a city. My suite of 
apartments were in a proud, melancholy palace 
on the grand canal, formerly the residence of a 
magnifico, and sumptuous with the traces of de- 
cayed grandeur. My gondolier was one of the 
shrewdest of his class, active, merry, intelligent, 
and, like his brethren, secret as the grave ; that 
is to say, secret to all the world except his 
master. I had not had him a week before he 
put me behind all the curtains in Venice. I 
liked the silence and mystery of the place, and 
when I sometimes saw from my window a black 
gondola gliding mysteriously along in the dusk 
of the evening, with nothing visible but its 
little glimmering lantern, I would jump into my 



104 THE ADVENTURE OF 

own zeudaletta, and give a signal for pursuit. — 
" But I am running away from my subject with 

the recollection of youthful follies," said the Ba- 
ronet, checking himself. " Let us come to the 
point." 

Among my familiar resorts was a Cassino 
under the arcades on one side of the grand 
square of St. Mark. Here I used frequently to 
lounge and take my ice, on those warm summer 
nights when in Italy every body lives abroad 
until morning. I was seated here one evening, 
when a group of Italians took their seat at a 
table on the opposite side of the saloon. Their 
conversation was gay and animated, and carried 
on with Italian vivacity and gesticulation. I 
remarked among them one young man, however, 
who appeared to take no share, and find no en- 
joyment in the conversation, though he seemed 
to force himself to attend to it. He was tall 
and slender, and of extremely prepossessing ap- 
pearance. His features were fine, though ema- 
ciated. He had a profusion of black glossy hair 
that curled lightly about his head, and con- 



THE MYSTERIOUS STllANGEll. 105 

trasted with the extreme paleness of his coun- 
tenance. His brow was haggard ; deep fiirrows 
seemed to have been ploughed into his visage 
by care, not by age, for he was evidently in the 
prime of youth. His eye was full of expression 
and fire, but wild and unsteady. He seemed to 
be tormented by some strange fancy or appre- 
hension. In spite of every effort to fix his 
attention on the conversation of his companions, 
I noticed that every now and then he woidd turn 
his head slowly round, give a glance over his 
shoulder, and then withdraw it with a sudden 
jerk, as if something painful had met his eye. 
This was^ repeated at intervals of about a minute, 
and he appeared hardly to have recovered from 
one shock before I saw him slowly preparing to 
enco\mter another. 

After sitting some time in the Cassino, the 
party paid for the refreshment they had taken, 
and departed. The young man was the last to 
leave the saloon, and I remarked him glancing 
behind him in the same way, just as he passed 
out of the door. I could not resist the impulse 



106 THE ADVENTURE OF 

to rise and follow him ; for I was at an age when 
a romantic feeling of curiosity is easily awakened. 
The party walked slowly down the arcades, talk- 
ing said laughing as they went. They crossed 
the Piazzetta, but paused in the middle of it to 
enjoy the scene. It was one of those moon- 
light nights so brilliant and clear in the pure 
atmosphere of Italy. The moon-beams streamed 
on the tall tower of St. Mark, and lighted up the 
magnificent front and swelling domes of the ca- 
thedral. The party expressed their deUght in 
animated terms. I kept my eye upon the young 
man. He alone seemed abstracted and self-oc- 
cupied. I noticed the same singular, and, as it 
were, furtive glance, over the shoulder, which 
had attracted my attention in the Cassino. The 
party moved on, and I followed ; they passed 
along the walk called the Broglio, turned the 
corner of the Ducal Palace, and getting into a 
gondola, glided swiftly away. 

The countenance and conduct of this young 
mian dwelt upon my mind. There was some- 
thing in his appearance that interested me ex- 



THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. 107 

ceedingly. I met him a day or two after in a 
gallery of paintings. He was evidently a con- 
noisseur, for he always singled out the most 
masterly productions, and the few remarks 
drawn from him by his companions showed an 
intimate acquaintance with the art. His own 
taste, however, ran on singular extremes. On 
Salvator Rosa in his most savage and solitary 
scenes; on Raphael, Titian, and Correggio in 
their softest delineations of female beauty ; on 
these he would occasionally gaze with transient 
enthusiasm. But this seemed only a momentary 
forgetfulness. Still would recur that cautious 
glance behind, and always quickly withdrawn, 
as though something terrible had met his view. 
I encoimtered him frequently afterwards at 
the theatre, at balls, at concerts; at the pro- 
menades in the gardens of San Georgia ; at the 
grotesque exhibitions in the Square of St. Mark ; 
among the throng of merchants on the exchange 
by the Rialto. . He seemed, in fact, to seek 
crowds; to hunt after bustle and amusement; 
yet never to take any interest in either the 



108 THE ADVENTURE OF 

business or gaiety of the scene. Ever an air of 
painful thought, of wretched abstraction ; and 
ever that strange and recurring movement of 
glancing fearfully over the shoulder. I did not 
know at first but this might be caused by appre- 
hension of arrest; or, perhaps, from dread of 
assassination. But if so, why should he go 
thus continually abroad ; why expose himself at 
all times and in all places ? 

I became anxious to know this stranger. I 
was drawn to him by that romantic sympathy 
which sometimes draws young men towards each 
other. His melancholy threw a charm about 
him in my eyes, which was no doubt heightened 
by the touching expression of his countenance, 
and the manly graces of his person ; for manly 
beauty has its effect even upon men. I had an 
Englishman's habitual diffidence and awkward- 
ness of address to contend with; but I sub- 
dued it, and from frequently meeting him in 
the Cassino, gradually edged myself into his ac- 
quaintance. I had no reserve on his part to 
contend with. He seemed, on the contrary, to 



THE MYSTEllIOUS STRANGER. 109 

court society ; and, in fact, to seek any thing 
rather than be alone. 

When he found that I really took an interest 
in him, he threw himself entirely on my friend- 
ship. He clung to me like a drowning man. 
He would walk with me for hours up and down 
the place of St. Mark — or he would sit, until 
night, was far advanced, in my apartments. He 
took rooms under the same roof with me ; and 
his constant request was, that I would permit 
' Mm, when it did not incommode me, to sit by 
me in my saloon. It was not that he seemed to 
take a particular delight in my conversation, 
but rather that he craved the vicinity of a hu- 
man being; and, above all, of a being that 
sympathised with him. " I have often heard," 
said he, " of the sincerity of Englishmen — 
thank God I have one at length for a friend !" 

Yet he never seemed disposed to avail him- 
self of my sympathy other than by mere com- 
panionship. He never sought to unbosom him- 
self to me : there appeared to be a settled cor- 



110 THE ADVENTURE OF 

roding anguish in his bosom that neither could 
be soothed " by silence nor by speaking. " 

A devouring melancholy preyed upon his 
heart, and seemed to be drying up the very blood 
in his veins. It was not a soft melancholy, the 
disease of the affections, but a parching, wither- 
ing agony. I could see at times that his mouth 
was dry and feverish ; he panted rather than 
breathed ; his eyes were bloodshot ; his cheeks 
pale and livid ; with now and then faint 
streaks of red athwart them, baleful gleams of 
the fire that was consuming his heart. As my 
arm was within his, I felt him press it at times 
with a convulsive motion to his side ; his hands 
would clench themselves involimtarily, and a 
kind of shudder would run through his frame. 

I reasoned with him about his melancholy, 
and sought to draw from him the cause ; he 
shrunk from all confiding ; " Do not seek to 
know it," said he, " you could not relieve it if 
you knew jt; you would not even seek to relieve 
it. On the contrary, I should lose your sym- 



THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. Ill 

pathy, and that," said he, pressing my hand 
convulsively, " that I feel has become too dear 
to me to risk." 

I endeavoured to awaken hope within him. 
He was young ; life had a thousand pleasures 
in store for him ; there is a healthy reaction 
in the youthful heart ; it medicines all its own 
wounds — " Come, come," said I, " there is no 
grief so great that youth cannot outgrow it." — 
" No ! no !" said he, clenching his teeth and 
striking repeatedly, with the energy of despair, 
on his bosom— ^^ it is here ! here ! deep rooted ; 
draining my heart's blood. It grows and grows, 
while my heart withers and withers. I have a 
dreadful monitor that gives me no repose — ^that 
follows me step by step— and will follow me step 
by step, until it pushes me into my grave !" 

As he said this, he involuntarily gave one of 
those fearful glances over his shoulder, and 
shrunk back with more than usual horror. I 
could not resist the temptation to allude to this 
movement, which I supposed to be some mere 
malady of the nerves. The moment I men- 



112 THE ADVENTURE OF 

tioned it, his face became crimsoned and con- 
vulsed ; he grasped me by both hands — 

" For God's sake," exclaimed he, 'with a 
piercing Voice, " never allude to that again. — 
Let us avoid this subject, my friend ; you cannot 

relieve me, indeed you cannot relieve me, but you . 

may add to the torments I suffer. — At some 

future day you shall know all." 

I never resiuned the subject ; for however 

much my curiosity might be roused, I felt too 

true a compassion for his sufferings to increase 

them by my intrusion. I sought various ways 

to divert his mind, and to arouse him from the 

constant meditations in which he was plunged. 

He saw my efforts, and seconded them as far as 

in his power, for there was nothing moody nor 

wayward in his nature. On the contrary, there 

was something frank, generous, unassuming in 

his whole deportment. All the sentiments that 

he uttered were noble and lofty. He claimed no 

indulgence ; he asked no toleration. He seemed 

content to carry his load of misery in silence, 

and only sought to carry it by my side. There 



THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. 113 

was a mute beseeching manner about him, as if 
he craved companionship as a charitable boon ; 
and a tacit thankfulness in his looks, as if he 
felt grateful to me for not repulsing him. 

I felt this melancholy to be infectious. It 
stole over my spirits ; interfered with all my gay 
pursuits, and gradually saddened my life ; yet I 
could not prevail upon myself to shake off a 
being who seemed to hang upon me for support. 
In truth, the generous traits of character that 
beamed through all this gloom had penetrated 
to my heart. His bounty was lavish and open- 
handed : his charity melting and spontaneous. 
Not confined to mere donations, which humiliate 
as much as they relieve. The tone of his voice, 
the beam of his eye, enhanced every gift, and 
surprised the poor suppliant with that rarest 
and sweetest of charities, the charity not merely 
of the hand but of the heart. Indeed his 
liberality seemed to have something in it of 
self-abasement and expiation. He, in a manner, 
humbled himself before the mendicant. " What 

VOL. I. I 



114 THE ADVENTURE OF 

right have I to ease and affluence" — would he 
murmur to himself—'' when mnocence wanders 
in misery and rags ?" 

The carnival time arrived. I hoped that 
the gay scenes which then presented themselves 
might have some cheering effect. I mingled 
with him in the motley throng that crowded the 
place of St. Mark. We frequented (^>eraS9 mas- 
querades, balls--^l in vain. The evil kept 
growing on him. He became more and more 
haggard and agitated. Often, after we have re^ 
turned from one <^ these scenes of revelry, I 
have entered his room and found him lying on 
his face on the sofa ; his hands clenched in his 
fine hair, and his whole countenance bearing 
traces of the convulsions of his mind. 

The carnival passed away ; the time of Lent 
succeeded ; passion-week arrived ; we attended 
one evening a solemn service in one of the 
churches, in the course of which a grand piece 
of vocal and instrumental music was performed, 
relating to the death of our Saviour. 



THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. 115 

I had remarked that he was always powerfully 
affected by mml(^ ; on this occasion he was so in 
an extraordinary degree. As the pealing notes 
swelled through the lofty aisles, he seemed to 
kindle with fervour; his eyes rolled upwards, 
until nothing but the whites were visible ; his 
hands were clasped together, until the fingers 
were deeply imprinted in the fleSh. When the 
music expressed the dying agony, his face gra* 
dually sunk upon his knees ; and at the touch- 
ing words resounding through the church, 
" Jesu moriy' sobs burst from him uncontrolled. 
— I had never seen him weep before. His 
had always been agony rather than sorrow. I 
Wgured well itam the circumstance, and let him 
weep on iminterrupted. When the service was 
ended, we left the church. He hung on my 
onn as we walked homewards with something 
of a softer and more subdued manner, instead of 
tii#t nervous agitation I had been accustomed to 
witness. He alluded to the service we had heard. 
" Music," said he, " is indeed the voice of hea- 
ven ; never before have I felt more impressed by 

I2 



116 THE ADVENTURE OF 

the story of the atonement of our Saviour — ^Yes, 
my friend," said he, clasping his hands with a 
kind of transport, " I know that my Redeemer 
liveth !" 

We parted for the night. His room was not 
far from mine, and I heard him for some time 
busied in it» I fell asleep, but was awakened 
before daylight. The young man stood by my 
bedside, dressed for travelling. He held a sealed 
packet and a large parcel in his hand, which he 
laid on the table. 

" Farewell, my friend," said he, " I am about 
to set forth on a long journey ; but, before 1 go, I 
leave with you these remembrances. In this 
packet you will find the particulars of my story. 
— When you read them I shall be far away ; do 
not remember me with aversion — ^You have been 
indeed a friend to me. — ^You have poured oil 
into a broken heart, but you could not heal it. — 
Farewell ! let me kiss your hand — I am un- 
worthy to embrace you." He sunk on his knees 
— seized my hand in despite of my efforts to the 
contrary, and covered it with kisses. I was so 



THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. 117 

surprised by all the scene, that I had not been 
able to say a word. — " But we shall meet again," 
said I hastily, as I saw him hurrying towards 
the. door. " Never, never, in this world !" said 
he solemnly. — He sprang once more to my bed- 
side — seized my hand, pressed it to his heart 
and to his lips, and rushed out of the room. 

Here the Baronet paused. He seemed lost in 
thought, and sat looking upon the floor, and drum- 
ming with his fingers on the arm of his chair. 

" And did this mysterious personage return ?" 
said the inquisitive gentleman. 

" Never !" replied the Baronet, with a pensive 
shake of the head — " I never saw him again." 

" And pray what has all this to do with the 
picture ?" inquired the old gentleman with the 
nose. 

" True," said the questioner — " Is it the por- 
trait of that crack-brained Italian ?" 

" No," said the Baronet, dryly, not half liking 
the appellation given to his hero — "but this 
picture was enclosed in the parcel he left with 
me. The sealed packet contained its explana- 



118 THE ADVENTURE OF, &C. 

tion. There was a request on the (n^tside that 
I would not open it until six months had elapsed. 
I kept my promise, in spite of my curiosity. I 
have a translation of it by me^ and had meant 
to read it, by way of accounting for the my- 
stery of the chamber ; but I fear I have already 
detained the company too long." ^ 

Here there was a general wish expressed to 
have the manuscript read, particularly on the 
part of the inquisitive gentleman ; so the worthy 
Baronet drew out a fairly written manuscript, 
and, wiping his spectacles, read aloud the fol- 
lowing story.-— 



THE STORY OF THE YOUNG 

ITALIAN. 



I WAS bom at Naples. My parents, though 
of noble rank, were limited in fortune, or rather, 
my father was ostentatious beyond his means, 
and expended so much on his palace, his equi- 
page, and his retinue, that he was continually 
straitened in his pecuniary circumstances. I was 
a younger son, and looked upon with indifference 
by my father, who, from a principle of family 
pride, wished to leave all his property to my 
elder brother. I showed, when quite a child, an 
extreme sensibility. Every thing affected me 
violently. While yet an infant in my mother's 
arms, and before I had learnt to talk, I could be 
wrought upon to a wonderful degree of anguish 
or delight by the power of music. As I grew 
older, my feelings remained equally acute, and I 



120 THE STORY OF 

was easily transported into paroxysms of pleasure 
or rage. It was the amusement of my relations 
and of the domestics to play upon this irritable 
temperament. I was moved to tears, tickled to 
laughter, provoked to fury, for the entertain- 
ment* of company, who were amused by such 
a tempest of mighty passion in a pigmy frame — 
they little thought, or perhaps little heeded the 
dangerous sensibilities they were, fostering. I 
thus became a little creature of passion before 
reason was developed. In a short time I grew 
too old to be a plajrthing, and then I became a 
torment. The tricks . and passions I had been 
teased into became irksome, and I was disliked 
by my teachers for the very lessons they had 
taught me. My mother died ; and my power 
as a spoiled child was at an end. There was 
no longer any necessity to humour or tolerate 
me, for there was nothing to be gained by it, as 
I was no favourite of my father. I therefore 
experienced the fate of a spoiled child in such 
i^tuation, and was neglected, or noticed only to 
be crossed and contradicted. Such was the early 



THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 121 

treatment of a heart, which, if I can judge of it 
at all, was naturally disposed to the extremes of 
tenderness and affection. 

My father, as I have already said, never liked 
me — in fact, he never understood me ; he looked 
upon me as wilful and wayward, as deficient in 
natural affection. — It was the stateliness of his 
own manner, the loftiness and grandeur , of his 
own look, that had repelled me from his arms. 
I always pictured him to myself as I had seen 
him, clad in his senatorial robes, rustUng with 
pomp and pride. The magnificence of his per- 
son had daunted my young imagination. I 
could never approach him with the confiding 
affection of a child. 

My father's feelings were wrapped up in my 
elder brother. He was to be the inheritor of the 
family title and the family dignity, and every 
thing was sacrificed to him — I, as well as every 
thing else. It was determined to devote me to 
the church, that so my humours and myself 
might be removed out of the way, either of 
tasking my father's time and trouble, or inter- 



122 THE STORY OF 

fering nvith the interests of my brother. At an 
early age, therefore, before my mind had dawned 
upon the world and its delights, or known any 
thing of it beyond the precincts of my father's 
palace, I was sent to a convent, the superior of 
which was my uncle, and was confided entirely 
to his care. 

My uncle was a man totally estranged from 
the world : he had never relished, for he had 
never tasted, its pleasures ; and he considered 
rigid self-4^al as the great basis of Christian 
virtue. He considered every one's temperament 
like his own ; cm* at least he made them conform 
to it. His character and habits had an influence 
over the fraternity of which he was superior— 
a more gloomy, saturnine set of beings were 
never assembled together. The convent, too, 
was calculated to awaken sad and solitary 
thoughts. It was situated in a gloomy gorge of 
those mountains away south of Vesuvius. All 
distant views were shut out by sterile volcanic 
heights. A mountain-stream raved beneath its 
walls, and eagles screamed about its turrets. 



THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 128 

I had been sent to this place at so tender an 
age as soon to lose all distinct recollection of the 
scenes I had left behind. As my mind expanded, 
therefore, it formed its idea of the world from the 
convent and its vicinity, and a dreary world it 
appeared to me. An early tinge of melancholy 
was thus infused into my character; and the 
dismal stories of the monks, about devils and 
evil spirits, with which they affHghted my 
young imagination, gave me a tendency to su«- 
perstition which I could never effectually shake 
off*. They took the same delight to work npm 
my ardent feeUngs, that had been so mis- 
cfalevously executed by my father's household. 
I can recollect the horrors with which they fed 
my heated fancy during an eruption of Vesuvius. 
We were distant from that volcano, with moun- 
tains between us ; but its convulsive throes shook 
the solid foundations of nature. Earthquakes 
threatened to topple down our convent towers. 
A lurid, baleful light hung in the heavens at 
night, and showers of ashes, borne by the wind, 
fell in our narrow valley. The monks talked of 



124 THE STORY OF 

the earth being honey-combed beneath us ; of 
streams of molten lava raging through its veins ; 
of caverns of sulphurous flames roaring in the 
centre, the abodes of demons and the damned ; 
of fiery gulfs ready to yawn beneath our feet. 
'. — All these tales were told to the doleful accom- 
paniment of the mountain's thunders, whose low 
bellowing made the walls of our convent vibrate. 
One of the monks had been a painter, but 
had retired from the world, and embraced this 
dismal life in expiation of some crime. He was 
a melancholy man, who pursued his art in the 
solitude of hisi cell, but made it a source of pe- 
nance to him. His employment was to portray, 
either on canvas or in waxen models, the human 
face and human form, in the agonies of death, 
and in all the stages of dissolution and decay. 
The fearful mysteries of the charnel-house were 
unfolded in his labours. The loathsome ban- 
quet of the beetle and the worm — ^I turn with 
shuddering even from the recollection of his 
works* Yet, at the time, my strong but ill- 
directed imagination seized with ardour upon 



THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 125 

his instructions in his art. Any thhig was a 
variety from the dry studies and monotonous 
duties of the cloister. In a little while I became 
expert with my pencil, and my gloomy produc- 
tions were thought worthy of decorating some of 
the altars of the chapel. 

In this dismal way was a creature of feeling 
and fancy brought up. Every thing genial 
and amiable in my nature was repressed, and 
nothing brought out but what was unprofitable 
and ungracious. I was ardent in my tempera- 
ment ; quick, mercurial, impetuous ; formed to 
be a creature all love and adoration; but a 
leaden hand was laid on all my finer qualities. 
I was taught nothing but fear and hatred. I 
hated my uncle. I hated the monks. I hated 
the convent in which I was immured. I hated 
the world ; and I almost hated myself for being, 
as I supposed, so hating and hatefrd an animal. 

When I had nearly attained the age of six- 
teen, I was suffered, on one occasion, to accom- 
pany one of the brethren on a mission to a 
distant part of the country. We soon left 



126 THE STORY OF 

behind us the gloomy valley in which I had been 
pent up for so many years, and after a short 
journey among the mountains, emerged upon 
the voluptuous landscape that spreads itself 
about the Bay of Naples. Heavens ! how trans^ 
ported was I, when I stretched my gaze over 4 
vast reach of delicious sunny country, gay with 
groves aad vineyardfi ; with Vesuvius rearing its 
forked summit to my right ; the blue Meditar* 
ranean to my left, with its enchanting coast, 
rtttdded with shining towns and sumptuous 
villas ; and Naples^ my native Naples, gleaming 
far, £ar in the distance. 

Good God ! was this the lovely world from 
which I had been excluded? I had reached 
that age when the sensilnlities are in all tbetr 
bloom and freshness. Mine had been checked 
and ehille^ They now burst forth with the 
sudd^aness of a retarded spring. My heart, 
hitherto unnaturally shrunk up, expanded into a 
riot of vagu^ but delicious emoti<nis. The beauty 
oi mature intoxicated — bewildered me. The 
aong ef the peasants ; timr cheerful looks ; their 



THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 127 

happy avocations; the picturesque gaiety of 
their dresses ; their rustic music ; their daaces ; 
all broke upon me like witchcraft. My soul re- 
sponded to the music, my heart danced in my 
boaom. All the men appeared amiable, all the 
wometf lovely. 

I letumed to the convent, that is to say, my 
body returned, but my heart and soul never en^ 
teied there again. I could not forget this glimpse 
of a beautiful and a happy world — a world SD 
suited to my natural character. I had felt so 
happy while in it; so different a being from 
what I felt myself when in the convent«-*thai 
Umih of the living. I contrasted the onmte- 
nances of the beings I had seen, full of fire and 
freshness, and enjojrment, with the pallid, leaden,, 
lack-lustre visages of the mcmks ; the music of 
the dance vnih the droning chant of the dia- 
peL. I had before found the exercises of' the 
ckHster wearisome ; they now became intolerable. 
The dull round of duties wore away my spirit ; my 
nerves became irritated by the fretful tinkling 
of the convent4)eil, evermore dinging smang 



128 THE STORY OF 

the mountain echoes, evermore callmg me from 
my repose at night, my pencil by day, to attend 
to some tedious and mechanical ceremony of 
devotion. 

I was not of a nature to meditate long with- 
out putting my thoughts into action. My i^irit 
had been suddenly aroused, and was now all 
awake within me. I watched an opportunity, 
fled from the convent, and made my way on foot 
to Naples. As I entered its gay and crowded 
streets, and beheld the variety and stir of life 
aroimd me, the luxury of palaces, the splendour 
of equipages, and the pantomimic animation of 
the motley populace, I seemed as if awakened 
to a world of enchantment, and solenmly vowed 
that nothing should force me back to the mono* 
tony of the cloister. 

I had to inquire my way to my father's pa^ 
lace, for I had been so young on leaving it that 
I knew iiot its situation. I found some difficulty 
in getting admitted to my father's presence, fof 
the domestics scarcely knew that there was such 
a being as myself in existence, and my monastic 



THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 129 

dress did not operate in my favour. Even my 
father entertained no recollection of my person. 
I told him my name, threw mytself at his feet, 
implored his forgiveness, and entreated that I 
might not be sent back to the convent. 

He . received, me with the condescension of a 
patron rather than the fondness of a parent : 
listened patiently, but coldly, to my tale of 
monastic grievances and disgusts, and promised 
to think what else could be done for me. This 
coldness blighted and drove back all the frank 
aiSection of my nature, that was ready to spring 
forth at the least warmth of parental kindness. 
All my early feelings towards my father revived. 

■ 

I again looked up to him as the stately magni- 
ficent being thathad daunted my childish imagina- 
tion, and felt as if I had no pretensions to his sym- 
pathies. My brother engrossed all his care and 
love ; he inherited his nature, and carried him- 
self towards me with a protecting rather than a 
fraternal air. It wounded my pride, which was 
great. I could brook condescension from my 
father, for I looked up to him with awe, as a 

VOL. I. K 



130 THE STORY OF 

superior being ; but I could not brook patronage 
from a brother, who I felt was intellectually my 
inferior. The servants perceived that I was an 
unwelcome intruder in the paternal mansion, 
and, menial-like, they treated me with neglect. 
Thus baffled at every point, my affections out- 
raged wherever they would attach themselves ; 
I became sullen, silent, and desponding. My 
feelings driven back upon myself, entered and 
preyed upon my own heart. I remained for 

some days an unwelcome guest rather than a 
restored son in my father's house. I was doomed 
never to be properly known there. I was made, 
by wrong treatment, strange even to myself, and 
they judged of me from my strangeness. 

I was startled one day at the sight of one of 
the monks of my convent gliding out of my 
father's room. He saw me, but pretended not 
to notice me, and this very hypocrisy made me 
suspect something. I had become sore and sus- 
ceptible in my feelings ; every thing inflicted a 
wound on them. In this state of mind I was 
treated with marked disrespect by a pampered 



THE YOUNG ITALIAN. ISl 

minion, the favourite servant of my father. All 
the pride and passion of my nature rose in an 
instant, and I struck him to the earth. My 
father was passing by ; he stopped not to inquire 
the reason, nor indeed could he read the long 
course of mental sufferings which were the real 
cause. He rebuked me with anger and scorn ; 
he summoned all the haughtiness of his nature 
and grandeur of his look to give weight to the 
contumely with which he treated me. I felt I 
had not deserved it. I felt that I was not ap- 
preciated. I felt that I had that within me 
which merited better treatment: my heart 
swelled against a father's injustice. I broke 
through my habitual awe of him — I replied to 
him with impatience : my hot spirit flushed in 
my cheek and kindled in my eye, but my sen- 
sitive heart swelled as quickly, and before I had 
half vented my passion, I felt it suffocated and 
quenched in my tears. My father was asto- 
nished and incensed at this turning of the worm, 
and ordered me to my chamber. I retired in 
silence, choking with contending emotions. 

K 2 



132 THE STORY OF 

I had not been long there when I overheard 
voices in an adjoining apartment. It was a con- 
sultation between my father and the monk, about 
the means of getting me back quietly to the 
convent. My resolution was taken. I had na 
longer a home nor a father. That very night I 
left the paternal roof. I got on board a vessel 
about making sail from the harbour, and aban- 
doned myself to the wide world. No matter to 
what port she steered ; any part of so beautiful 
a world was better than my convent. No matter 
where I was cast by fortune ; any place would 
be more a home to me than the home I had left 
behind. The vessel was bound to Genoa. We 
arrived there after a voyage of a few days. 

As I entered the harbour between the moles 
which embrace it, and beheld the amphitheatre 
of palaces, and churches, and splendid gardens^ 
rising one above another, I felt at once its title 
to the appellation of Genoa the Superb. I 
landed on the mole an utter stranger, without 
knowing what to do, or whither to direct jtny 
steps. No matter; I was released from the 



THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 13S 

thraldom of the convent and the humiliations of 
home. When I traversed the Strada Balbi and 
the Strada Nuova, those streets of palaces, and 
gazed at the wonders of architecture around me ; 
when I wandered at close of day apiid a gay 
throng of the brilliant and the beautiful, through 
the green alleys of the Aqua Verde, or among 
the colonnades and terraces of the magnificent 
Doria gardens ; I thought it impossible to be 
ever otherwise than happy in Genoa. 

A few days sufficed to show me my mistake. 
My scanty purse was exhausted, and for the first 
time in my life I experienced the sordid dis- 
tresses of penury. I had never known the want 
of money, and had never adverted to the possi-* 
bility of such an evil. I was ignorant of the 
world and all its ways ; and when first the idea 
of destitution came over my mind, its effect was 
withering. I was wandering pennyless through 
the streets which no longer delighted my eyes, 
when chance led my steps into the magnificent 
church of the Annunciata, 



134 THE STORY OF 

A celebrated painter of the day was at that 
moment superintending the placing of one of 
his pictures over an altar. The proficiency 
which I had acquired in his art during my re- 
sidence in the convent had made me an enthu- 
siastic amateur. I was struck, at the first 
glance, with the painting. It was the face of a 
Madonna. So innocent, so lovely, such a divine 
expression of maternal tenderness ! I lost, for 
the moment, all recollection of myself in the 
enthusiasm of my art. I clasped my hands 
together, and uttered an ejaculation of delight. 
The painter perceived my emotion. He was 
flattered and gratified by it. My air and man- 
ner pleased him, and he accosted me. I felt too 
much the want of friendship to repel the ad- 
vances of a stranger ; and there was something 
in this one so benevolent and winning, that in 
a moment he gained my confidence. 

I told him my story and my situation, con- 
cealing only my name and rank. He appeared 
strongly interested by my recital, invited me to 



THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 135 

his house, and from that time I became his fa- 
vourite pupil. He thought he perceived in me 
extraordinary talents for the art, and his enco- 
miums awakened all my ardour. What a blissful 
period of my existence was it that I passed be- 
neath his roof ! Another being seemed created 
within me ; or rather, all that was amiable and 
excellent was drawn out. I was as recluse as 
ever I had been at the convent ; but how different 
was my seclusion ! My time was spent in storing 
my mind with lofty and poetical ideas ; in me- 
ditating on all that was striking and noble in 
history and fiction ; in studying and tracing all 
that was sublime and beautiful in nature. I was 
always a visionary, imaginative being, but now 
my reveries and imaginings all elevated me to 
rapture. I looked up to my master as to a be- 
nevolent genius that had opened to me a region 
of enchantment. He was not a native of Genoa, 
but had been drawn thither by the solicitations 
of several of the nobility, and had resided there 
but a few years, for the completion of certain 
works he had undertaken. His health was 



136 THE STORY OF 

delicate, and he had to confide much of the fill- 
ing up of his designs to the pencils of his scholars. 
He considered me as particularly happy in de- 
lineating the human countenance; in seizing 
upon characteristic, though fleeting expressions ; 
and fixing them powerfully upon my canvas. I 
was employed continually, therefore, in sketch- 
ing faces, and often, when some particular grace 
or beauty of expression was wanted in a coun- 
tenance, it was intrusted to my pencil. My 
benefactor was fond of bringing me forward, 
and partly, perhaps, through my actual skill, 
and partly through his partial praises, I began to 
be noted for the expressions of my countenances. 
Among the various works which he had 
undertaken, was an historical piece for one of 
the palaces of Grenoa, in which were to be intro- 
duced the likenesses of several of the family. 
Among these was one intrusted to my pencil. 
It was that of a young girl, who as yet was in a 
convent for her education. She came out for 
the purpose of sitting for the picture. I first 
(saw her in an apartment of one of the sumptuous 



THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 137 

palaces of Grenoa. She stood before a casement 
that looked out upon the bay; a stream of 
vernal sunshine fell upon her, and shed a kind 
of glory round her, as it lit up the rich crimson 
chamber. — She was but sixteen years of age — 
and oh, how lovely ! The scene broke upon me 
like a mere vision of spring and youth and 
beauty. I could have fallen down and wor- 
shipped her. She was like one of those fictions 
of poets and painters, when they would express 
the beau ideal that haunts their minds with 
shapes of indescribable perfection. I was per- 
mitted to sketch her countenance in various po- 
sitions, and I fondly protracted the study that 
was undoing me. The more I gazed on her, 
the more I became enamoured ; there was some- 
thing almost painful in my intense admiration. 
I was but nineteen years of age, shy, diflSdent, 
and inexperienced. I was treated with atten- 
tion by her mother ; for my youth and my en- 
thusiasm in my art had won favour for me ; and 
I am inclined to think that there was something 



138 THE STOKY OF 

in my air and manner that inspired interest and 
respect. Still the kindness with which I was 
treated could not dispel the embarrassment into 
which my own imagination threw me when in 
presence of this lovely being. It elevated her 
into something almost more than mortal. She 
seemed too exquisite for earthly use ; too deli- 
cate and exalted for human attainment. As I 
sat tracing her charms on my canvas, with my 
eyes occasionally riveted on her features, I drank 
in delicious poison that made me giddy. My 
heart alternately gushed with tenderness, and 
ached with despair. — Now I became more than 
ever sensible of the violent fires that had lain 
dormant at the bottom of my soul. You wha 
are bom in a more temperate climate, and under 
a cooler sky, have little idea of the violence of 
passion in our southern bosoms. 

A few days finished my task. Bianca re- 
turned to her convent, but her image remained 
indelibly impressed upon my heart. It dwelt 
in my imagination; it became my pervading 



THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 139 

idea of beauty. It had an effect even upon my 
pencil. I became noted for my felicity in de- 
picting female loveliness ; it was but because I 
multiplied the image of Bianca. I soothed and 
yet fed my fancy by introducing her in all the 
productions of my master. — I have stood, with 
delight, in one of the chapels of the Annunciata, 
and heard the crowd extol the seraphic beauty 
of a Saint which I had painted. I have seen 
them bow down in adoration before the paint- 
ing ; they were bowing before the loveliness of 
Bianca. 

I existed in this kind of dream, I might 
almost say delirium, for upwards of a year. Such 
is the tenacity of my imagination, that the 
image which was formed in it continued in all 
its power and freshness. Indeed I was a soli- 
tary, meditative being, much given to reverie, 
and apt to foster ideas which had once taken 
strong possession of me. I was roused from this 
fond, melancholy, delicious dream by the death 
of my worthy benefactor. I cannot describe the 
pangs his death occasioned me. It left me alone. 



140 THE STOKY OF 

and almost broken-hearted. He bequeathed to 
me his little property, which, from the liberality 
of his disposition, and his expensive style of 
living, was indeed but small ; and he most par^ 
ticularly recommended me, in dying, to the 
protection of a nobleman who had been his 
patron. 

The latter was a man who passed for muni- 
ficent. He was a lover and an encourager of the 
arts, and evidently wished to be thought so. He 
fancied he saw in me indications of future ex- 
cellence : my pencil had already attracted atten- 
tion ; he took me at once under his protection. 
Seeing that I was overwhelmed with grief, and 
incapable of exerting myself in the mansion of 
my late benefactor, he invited me to sojourn for 
a time at a villa which he possessed on the 
border of the sea, in the picturesque neighbour- 
hood of Sestri de Ponente. 

I found at the villa the count's only son, 
Filippo ; he was nearly of my age ; prepossessing 
in his appearance, and fascinating in his man-' 
uers ; he attached himself to me, and seemed to 



THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 141 

court my good opinion. I thought there was 
something of profession in his kindness, and of 
caprice in his disposition; but I had nothing 
else near me to attach myself to, and my heart 
felt the need of something to repose upon. His 
education had been neglected ; he looked upon 
me as his superior in mental powers and acquire- 
ments, and tacitly acknowledged my superiority. 
I felt that I was his equal in birth, and that 
gave independence to my manners, which had 
its effect* The caprice and tyranny I saw some^ 
times exercised on others over whom he had 
power were never manifested towards me. We 
became intimate friejids and frequent com- 
panions. Still I loved to be alone, and to in- 
dulge in the reveries of my own imagination 
among the scenery by which I was surrounded. 
The villa commanded a wide view of the 
Mediterranean, and of the picturesque Ligurian 
coast. It stood alone in the midst of ornamented 
grounds, finely decorated with statues and foun- 
tains, and laid out into groves and alleys, and 
shady lawns. Every thing was assembled here 



142 THE STORY OF 

that could gratify the taste, or agreeably oc- 
cupy the milid. Soothed by the tranquillity of 
this elegant retreat, the turbulence of my feel- 
ings gradually subsided, and blending with the 
romantic spell which still reigned over my ima- 
gination, produced a soft, voluptuous melan- 
choly. 

I had not been long under the roof of the 
Count when our solitude was enlivened by an- 
other inhabitant. It was the daughter of a re- 
lative of the Count, who had lately died in re- 
duced circumstances, bequeathing this only child 
to his protection. I had heard much of her 
beauty from Filippo, but my fancy had become 
so engrossed by one idea of beauty, as not to 
admit of any other. We were in the central 
saloon of the villa when she arrived. She was! 
still in mourning, and approached, leaning on the 
Count's arm. As they ascended the marble por- 
tico I was struck by the elegance of her figure 
and movement, by the grace with which the 
mezzaro, the bewitching veil of Grenoa, was 
folded about her slender form. They entered. 



THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 143 

Heavens ! what was my surprise when I beheld 
Bianea before me. It was herself; pale with 
grief, but still more matured in loveliness than 
when I had last beheld her. The time that had 
elapsed had developed the graces of her person, 
and the sorrow she had undergone had diffused 
over her countenance an irresistible tenderness. 

She blushed and trembled at seeing me, and 
tears rushed into her eyes, for she remembered 
in whose company she had been accustomed ta 
behold me. For my part, I cannot express what 
were my emotions. By degrees I overcame the 
extreme shyness that had formerly paralysed me 
in her presence. We were drawn together by 
sympathy of situation. We had each lost our 
best friend in the world ; we were each, in some 
measure, thrown upon the kindness of others. 
When I came to know her intellectually, all my 
ideal picturings of her were confirmed. Her 
newness to the world, her delightful suscepti- 
bility to every thing beautiful and agreeable in 
nature, reminded me of my own emotions when 
first I escaped from the convent : her rectitude 



144 THE STORY OF 

of thinking delighted my judgment ; the sweet- 
ness of her nature wrapped itself round my 
heart, and then her young, and tender, and 
budding loveliness sent a delicious madness to 
my brain. 

I gazed upon her with a kind of idolatry, as 
something more than mortal; and I felt hu- 
miliated at the idea of my comparative unwor- 
thiness. Yet she was mortal ; and one of mor- 
tality's most susceptible and loving compounds ; 
for she loved me ! 

How first I discovered the transporting truth 
I cannot recollect ; I believe it stole upon me 

m 

by degrees as a wonder past hope or belief. We 
were both at such a tender and loving age ; in 
constant intercourse with each other ; mingling 
in the same elegant pursuits — for music, poetry, 
and painting, were our mutual delights ; and we 
were almost separated from society among lovely 
and romantic scenery. Is it strange that two 
young hearts, thus brought together, should 
readily twine round each other ? 

O gods! what a dream — a transient dream 



THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 145 

of unalloyed delight, then passed over my soul! 
Then it was that the world around me was in- 
deed a paradise ; for I had woman — ^lovely, de- 
licious woman, to share it with me ! How often 
have I rambled along the picturesque shores of 
Sestri, or climbed its wild mountains, with the 
coast gemmed with villas and the blue sea far 
below me, and the slender Faro of Genoa on its 
romantic promontory in the distance ; and as I 
sustained the faltering steps of Bianca, have 
thought there could no unhappiness enter into so 
beautifial a world ! How often have we listened 
together to the nightingale, as it poured forth its 
rich notes among the moonlight bowers of the 
garden, and have wondered that poets could 
ever have fancied any thing melancholy in its 
song ! Why, oh why is this budding season of 
life and tenderness so transient! why i; this 
rosy cloud of love, that sheds such a glow over 
the morning of our days, so prone to brew up 
into the whirlwind and the storm ! 

I was the first to awaken from this blissful 
delirium of the affections. I had gained Bianca's 

VOL. I. L 



146 THE STORY OF 

heart, what was 1 to do with it ? I had no 
wealth nor prospect to entitle me, to her hand ; 
was I to take advantage of her ignorance of the 
world, of her confiding affection, and draw her 
down to my own poverty ? Was this requiting 
.the hospitality of the Count ? was this requiting 
the love of Bianca ? 

Now first I began to feel that even successful 
love may have its bitterness. A corroding care 
gathered about my heart. I moved about the 
palace like a guilty being. I felt as if I had 
abused its hospitality, as if I were a thief within 
its walls. I could no longer look with unem- 
barrassed mien in the countenance of the Count. 
I accused myself of perfidy to him, and I thought 
he read it in my looks, and began to distrust and 
despise me. His manner had always been osten-» 
tatio|is and condescending; it now appeared 
cold and haughty. Filippo, too, became re- 
served and distant ; or at least I suspected him 
to be so. Heavens! was this mere coinage of 
my brain ? Was I to become suspicious of all 
the world ? A poor, surmising wretch ; watch- 



THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 147 

ing looks and gestures; and torturing myself 
with misconstructions ? Or if true, was I to re- 
main beneath a roof where I was merely tolerated, 
and linger there on suffrance ? '^ This is not to 
be endured !" exclaimed I : " I will tear myself 
from this state of self-abasement — I will break 

through this fascination, and fly Fly! — 

Whither ? from the world ? for where is the 

world when I leave Bianca behind me ?" 

My spirit was naturally proud, and swelled 
within me at the idea of being looked upon with 
contumely. Many times I was on the point of 
declaring my family and rank, and asserting my 
equaUty in the presence of Bianca, when I 
thought her relations assumed an air of supe- 
riority. But the feeling was transient. I con- 
sidered myself discarded and contemned by my 
family ; and had solemnly vowed never to own 
relationship to them imtil they themselves should 
claim it. 

The strugjfle of my mind preyed upon my 
happiness and my health. It seemed as if the 
uncertainty of being loved would be less into- 

i. 2 



148 THE STORY OF 

lerable than thus to be assured of it, and yet not 
dare to enjoy the conviction, I was no longer 
the enraptured admirer of Bianca ; I no longer 
hung in ecstasy on the tones of her voice, nor 
drank in with insatiate gaze the beauty of her 
countenance. Her very smiles ceased to delight 
me, for I felt culpable in having won them. 

She could not but be sensible of the change in 
me, and inquired the cause with her usual frank* 
ness and simplicity. I could not evade the in- 
quiry, for my heart was full to aching. I told her 
all the conflict of my soul; my devouring passion, 
my bitter self-upbraiding. " Yes," said I, ** I 

am unworthy of you. I am an offcast from my 

« 
family — a wanderer — a nameless, homeless wan-^ 

derer — with nothing but poverty for my portion ; 

and yet I have dared to love you — ^have dared 

to aspire to your love !" 

My agitation moved her to tears, but she saw 

nothing in my situation so hopeless as I had de- 
picted it. Brought up in a convent, she knew 
nothing of the world — its wants — its cares: 
and indeed what woman is a worldly casuist in 



THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 149 

matters of the heart ? Nay more — she kindled 
into a sweet enthusiasm when she spoke of my 
fortunes and myself. We had dwelt together 
on the works of the famous masters : I had re- 
lated to her their histories ; the high reputation, 
the influence, the magnificence to which they 
had attained. The companions of princes, the 
favourites of kings, the pride and boast of na- 
tions. All this she applied to me. Her love 
saw nothing in all their great . productions 
that I was not able to achieve, and when I 
beheld the lovely creature glow with fervour, 
and her whole countenance radiant with vi- 
sions of my glory, I was snatched up for the 
moment into the heaven of her own imagina- 
tion. 

I am dwelling too long upon this part of my 
story ; yet I cannot help lingering over a period 
of my life, on which, with all its cares and con- 
flicts, I look back with fondness, for as yet my 
soul was unstained by a crime. I do not know 
what might have been the result of this struggle 
between pride, delicacy, and passion, had I not 



150 THE STORY OF 

read in a Neapolitan gazette, an account of the 
sudden death of my brother. It was accom- 
panied by an earnest inquiry for intelligence 
concemmg me, and a prayer, should this meet 
iny eye, that I would hasten to Naples to com- 
fort an infirm and afflicted father. 

I was naturally of an affectionate disppsition, 
but my brother had never been as a brother to 
me. I had long considered myself as discon- 
nected from ^im, and his death caused me but 
little emotion. The thoughts of my father, in- 
firm and suffering, touched me however to the 
quick, and when I thought of him, that lofty, 
magnificent being, now bowed down and de- 
solate, and suing to me for comfort, all my re- 
sentment for past neglect was subdued, and . a 
glow of filial affection was awakened within me. 

The predominant feeling, however, that over- 
powered all others, was transport at the sudden 
change in my whole fortunes. A home, a name, 
rank, wealth awaited me; and love painted a 
still more rapturous prospect in the distance. I 
hastened to Bianca, and threw myself at her 



THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 151 

jfeet. " Oh, Bianca !" exclaimed I, " at length I 
pan claim you for my own. I am no longer a 
nameless adventurer, a neglected, rejected out- 
cast. Look — read — behold the tidings that re- 
store me to my name and to myself !" 

I will not dwell on the scene that ensued. 
3ianca rejoiced in. the reverse of my situation, 
because she saw it lightened my heart of a load 
of care ; for her own part, she had loved ine for 
myself, and had never doubted that my own 
merits would command both fame and fortune. 

I now felt all my native pride buoyant within 
me. I no longer walked with my eyes bent to 

the dust ; hope elevated them to the skies — my 

». 

soul was lit up with fresh fires, and beamed from 
my countenance. 

I wished to impart the change in my circum- 
stances to the count ; to let him know who and 
what I was — and to make formal proposals for 
the hand of Bianca ; but he was absent on a 
distant estate, I opened my whole soul to 
Filippo. Now, first, I told him of my passion, 
of the doubts and fears that had distracted me, 
and of the tidings that had suddenly dispelled 



152 THE STORY OF 

them. He overwelmed me with congratulations, 
and with the wannest expressions of sympathy. 
I embraced him in the fidness of my heart; 
—I felt compunctious for having suspected him 
of coldness, and asked him forgiveness for having 
ever doubted his friendship. 

Nothing is so warm and enthusiastic as a 
sudden expansion of the heart between yoimg 
men. Filippo entered into our concerns with 
the most eager interest. He was our confidant 
and counsellor. It was determined that I should 
hasten at once to Naples, to re-establish myself 
in my father's affections, and my paternal home ; 
and the moment the reconciliation was effected, 
and my father's consent insured, I should return 
and demand Bianca of the count. Filippo en- 
gaged to secure his father's acquiescence ; indeed 
he undertook to watch over our interests, and 
to be the channel through which we might cor- 
respond. 

My parting with Bianca was tender — deli- 
cious — agonizing. It was in a little pavilion of 
the garden which had been one of our favourite 
resorts. How often and often did I return to 



THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 15S 

have one more adieu, to have her look once 
more on me in speechless emotion; to enjoy 
once more the rapturous sight of those tears, 
streaming down her lovely cheeks; to seize once 
more on that delicate hand, the frankly accorded 
pledge of love, and cover it with tears and kisses ! 
Heavens ! There is a delight even in the parting 
agony of two lovers, worth a thousand tame 
pleasures of the world. I have her at this mo- 
ment before my eyes, at the window of the pa- 
vilion, putting aside the vines that clustered 
about the casement, her light form beaming 
forth in virgin light, her countenance all tears 
and smiles, sending a thousand and a thousand 
adieus after me, as, hesitating, in a delirium 
of fondness and agitation, I faltered my way 
down the avenue. 

As the bark bore me out of the harbour of 
Genoa, how eagerly my eye stretched along the 
coast of Sestri till it discovered the villa gleam- 
ing from among trees at the foot of the moun- 
tain. As long as day lasted,-! gazed and gazed 
upon it till it lessened and lessened to a mere 



154 THE STOEY OF 

white speckin the distance; and stUl my intense 
and fixed gaze discerned it, when all other ob- 
jects of the coast had blended into indistinct 
confusion, or were lost in the evening gloom. 

On arriving at Naples, I hastened to my pa- 
ternal home. My heart yearned for the long- 
withheld blessing of a father's love. — As I en- 
tered the proud portal of the ancestral palace, 
my emotions were so great, that I could not 
«peak. No one knew me ; the servants gazed at 
me with curiosity and surprise. A few yeai:s 
of intellectual elevation and developement had 
^Doade a prodigious change in the poor fugitive 
stripling from the convent. Still that no one 
should know me in my rightful home was over- 
powering. I felt like the prodigal son returned. 
I was a stranger in the house of my father. I 
burst into tears and wept aloud. When I made 
myself known, however, all was changed. I, 
who had once been almost repulsed from its 
walls, and forced to fly as an exile, was welcomed 
back with acclamation, with servility. One of 
the servants hastened to prepare my father for 



THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 165 

my reception ; my eagerness to receive the pa- 
ternal embrace was so great, that I could not 
await his return, but hurried after him. What 
a spectacle met my eyes as I entered the cham- 
ber ! My father, whom I had left in the pride of 
vigorous age, whose noble and majestic bearing 
had so awed my young imagination, was bowed 
down and withered into decrepitude. A para- 
lysis had ravaged his stately form, and left it a 
shaking ruin. He sat propped up in his chair, 
with pale relacsed visage, and glassy wanderii^ 
eye. His intellects had evidently shared in the 
ravage of his frame. The servant was endea- 
vouring to make him comprehend that a visitor 
was at hand. I tottered up to him, and sunk at 
his feet All his past coldness and neglect were 

forgotten in his present sufferings. Irememt)ered 
only that he was my parent, and that I had de- 
serted him. I clasped his knees : my voice was 
almost stifled with convulsive sobs. " Pardon — 
pardon, oh ! my father !" was all that I could 
utter. His apprehension seemed slowly to re- 
turn to him. He gazed at me for some mo- 

! 



166 THE STORY OF 

ments with a vague, inquiring look ; a convulsive 
tremor quivered about his lips; he feebly ex- 
tended a shaking hand ; laid it upon my head,, 
and burst into an infantine flow of tears. 

From that moment he would scarcely spare 
me from his sight. I appeared the only object 
that his heart responded to in the world ; all else 
was as a blank to him. He had almost lost the 
powers of speech, and the reasoning faculty 
seemed at an end. He was mute and passive, 
excepting that fits of child-like weeping would 
sometimes come over him without any imme- 
diate cause. If I left the room at any time, his 
eye was incessantly fixed on the door till my 
return, and on my entrance there was another 
gush of tears. 

To talk with him of my concerns, in this 
ruined state of mind, would have been worse 
than useless ; to have left him, for ever so short 
a time, would have been cruel, unnatural. Here 
then was a new trial for my affections. I wrote 
to Bianca an account of my return, and of my 
actual situation, painting, in colours vivid, for 



THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 167 

they were true, the torments I suffered at our 
being thus separated ; for to the youthful lover 
every day of absence is an age of love lost. I 
enclosed the letter in one to Filippo, who was 
the channel of our correspondence. I received 
a reply from him full of friendship and sympa- 
thy ; from Bianca, full of assurances of affection 
and constancy. Week after week, month after 
month elapsed, without making any change in 
my circumstances. The vital flame, which had 
seemed nea,rly extinct when first I met my 
father, kept fluttering on without any apparent 
diminution. I watched him constantly, faith- 
fully, I had almost said patiently. I knew that 
his death alone would set me free — yet I never 
at any moment wished it. I felt too glad to be 
able to make any atonement for past disobedi- 
ence ; and, denied as I had been all endearments 
of relationship in my early days, ray heart 
yearned towards a father, who in his age and 
helplessness had thrown himself entirely on me 
for comfort. 



158 THE STORY OF 

My passion for Bianca gained daily more force 
from absence: by constant meditation it wore 
itself a deeper and deeper channel. I made no 
new friends nor acquaintances ; sought none of 
the pleasures of Naples, which my rank and 
fortime threw open to me. Mine was a heart 
that confined itself to few objects, but dwelt 
upon them with the intenser passion. To sit by 
my father — administer to his wants, and to me- 
ditate on Bianca in the silence of his chamber, 
was my constant habit. Sometimes I amused 
myself with my pencil, in portraying the image 
that was ever present to my imagination. I 
transferred to canvas every look and smile of 
hers that dwelt in my heart. I showed them to 
my father, in hopes of awakening an interest in 
his bosom for the mere shadow of my love ; but 
he was too far sunk in intellect to take any more 
than a ohild-like notice of them. When I re- 
ceived a letter from Bianca, it was a new source 
of solitary luxury. Her letters, it is true, were 
less and less frequent, but they were always 



THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 159 

full of assurances of unabated affection. They 
breathed not the frank and innocent warmth 
with which she expressed herself in conversation, 
but I accounted for it from the embarrassment 
which inexperienced minds have often to express 
themselves upon paper. Filippo assured me of 
her unaltered constancy. They both lamented, 
in the strongest terms, our continued separation, 
though they did justice to the filial piety that 
kept me by my father's side. 

Nearly two years elapsed in this pro- 
tracted exile. To me they were so many ages. 
Ardent and impetuous by nature, I scarcely know 
how I should have supported so long an absence, 
had I not felt assured that the faith of Bianca 
was equal to my own. At length my father 
died. Life went from him almost imperceptibly. 
I hung over him in mute affliction, and watdied 
the expiring spasms of nature. His last falter- 
ing accents whispered repeatedly a blessing on 
me. — Alas ! how has it been fulfilled ! 

When I had paid due honours to his remains, 
and laid them in the tomb of our ancestors, I 



160 THE STORY OF 

arranged briefly my affairs ; put them in a pos- 
ture to be easily at my command from a distance, 
and embarked once more with a bounding heart 
for Grenoa. 

Our voyage was propitious, and oh ! what was 
my rapture, when first, in the dawn of morning, 
I saw the shadowy summits of the Apennines 
rising ahnost like clouds above the horizon. The 
sweet breath of smnmer just moved us over the 
long wavering billows that were rolling us on 
towards Grenoa. By degrees the coast of Sestri 
rose like a creation of enchantment from the 
silver bosom of the deep. I beheld the line 0I 
villages and palaces studding its borders. My 
eye reverted to a well-known point, and at 
length, from the confusion of distant objects, it 
singled out the villa which contained Bianca. 
It was a mere speck in the landscape, but glim- 
mering from afar, the polar star of my heart. 

Again I gazed at it for a livelong siunmer's 
day, but oh ! how different the emotions between 
departure and return. It now kept growing 
and growing, instead of lessening and lessening 



I 

THE YOUNG ITALIAN. l6l 

on my sight. My heart seemed to dilate with 
it. I looked at it through a telescope. I gra- 
dually defined one feature after another. The 
balconies of the central saloon where first I met 
Bianca beneath its roof; the terrace where we 
so often had passed the delightful summer even- 
ings ; the awning that shaded her chamber win- 
dow ; I almost fancied I saw her form beneath 
it. Could she but know her lover was in the 
bark whose white sail now gleamed on the sunny 
bosom of the. sea ! My fond impatience increased 
as we neared the coast ; the ship seemed to lag 
lazily over the billows ; I could almost have sprang 
into the sea, and swam to the desired shore. 

The shadows of evening gradually shrouded 
the scene ; but the moon arose in all her fulness 
and beauty, and shed the tender light so dear to 
lovers, over the romantic coast of Sestri. My 
soul was bathed in unutterable tenderness. I 
anticipated the heavenly evenings I should pass 
in once more wandering with Bianca by the light 
of that blessed moon. 
, It was late at night before we entered the 

VOL. L M 



162 THE STORY OF 

harbour. As early next raoming as I could get 
released from the formalities of landing, I threw 
myself on horseback and hastened to the villa. 
As I galloped round the rocky promontory on 
which stands the Faro, and saw the coast of 
Sestri opening upon me, a thousand anxieties 
and doubts suddenly sprang up in my bosom. 
There is something fearful m returning to those 
we love, while yet uncertain what ills or changes 
absence may have effected. The turbulence of 
my agitation shook my very frame. I spurred 
my horse to redoubled speed ; he was covered 
with foam when we both arrived panting at the 
gateway that opened to the grounds around the 
villa. I left my horse at a cottage, and walked 
through the grounds, that I might regain tran- 
quillity for the approaching interview. I chid 
myself for having suffered mere doubts and sur- 
mises thus suddenly to overcome me ; but I was 
always prone to be carried away by gusts of the 
feelings. 

On entering the garden every thing bore the 
same look as when I had left it ; and this un- 



THE YOUNG ITALIAN. l63 

changed aspect of things reassured me. There 
were the alleys in which I had so often walked 
with Bianca, as we listened to the song of the 
nightingale ; the same shades under which we 
had so often sat during the noontide heat. There 
were the same flowers of which she was fond ; 
and which appeared still to be under the mi- 
nistry of her hand. Every thing looked and 
breathed of Bianca ; hope and joy flushed in 
my bosom at every step. I passed a little arbour, 
in which we had often sat and read together — 
a book and a glove lay on the bench— It was 
Bianca's glove ; it was a volume of the Metastasio 
I had given her. The glove lay in my favourite 
passage. I clasped them to my heart with rap- 
ture. " All is safe !" exclaimed I ; *' she loves 
me, she is still my own !" 

I bounded lightly along the avenue down 
ivhich I had faltered so slowly at my depar- 
ture. I beheld her favourite pavilion, which had 
witnessed our parting scene. The window was 
open, with the same vine clambering about it, 
precisely as when she waved and wept me an 

M 2 



164 THE STORY OF 

adieu. O how transporting was the contrast 
in my situation ! As I passed near the pavilion, I 
heard the tones of a female voice r^they thrilled 
through me with an appeal to my heart not to 
be mistaken. Before I could think, I Jelt^ they 
were Bianca's. For an instant I paused, over- 
powered with agitation. I feared to break so 
suddenly upon her. I softly ascended the steps 
of the pavilion. The door was open. I saw 
Bianca seated at a table ; her back was towards 
me ; she was warbling a soft, melancholy air, 
and was occupied in drawing. A glance sufficed 
to show me that she was copying one of my own 
paintings. I gazed on her for a moment in a 
delicious timiult of emotions. She paused in her 
singing : a heavy sigh, almost a sob, followed. 
I could no longer contain myself. " Bianca !" 
exclaimed I, in a half-smothered voice. She 
started at the sound, brushed back the ringlets 
that hung clustering about her face, darted a 
glance at me, uttered a piercing shriek, and 
would have fallen to the earth, had I not caught 
her in my arms. 



THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 165 

*' Bianca ! my own Bianca !" exclaimed I, 
folding her to my bosom ; my voice stifled in 
sobs of convulsive joy. She lay in my arms 
without sense or motion. Alarmed at the effects 
of my precipitation, I scarce knew what to do. 
I tried by a thousand endearing words to call 
her back to consciousness. She slowly recovered, 
and half-opening her eyes, " Where am I ?" 
murmured she, faintly. " Here !" exclaimed I, 
pressing her to my bosom, " Here— close to 
the heart that adores you — in the arms of your 
faithful Ottavio !" . " Oh no ! no ! no !" shrieked 
she, starting into sudden life and terror — " away ! 
away ! leave me ! leave me !" 

She tore herself from my arms ; rushed to a 
corner of the saloon, and covered her face with 
her hands, as if the very sight of me were baleful. 
I was thunderstruck. I could not believe my 
senses. I followed her, trembling, confounded. 
I endeavoured to take her hand ; but she shrunk 
from my very touch with horror. 

** Good heavens, Bianca!" exclaimed I, " what 
is the meaning of this? Is this my reception 



166 THE STORY OF 

after so long an absence ? Is this the love you 
professed for me ?" 

At the mention of love a shuddering ran 
through her. She turned to me a face wild 
with anguish : " No more of that — no more of 
that !" gasped she : " talk not to me of love — I 
— I — am married !" 

I reeled as if I had received a mortal blow — 
a sickness struck to my very heart. I caught at 
a window-frame for support. For a moment or 
two every thing was chaos around me. When 
I recovered I beheld Bianca lying on a sofa, her 
face buried in the pillow, and sobbing con- 
vulsively. Indignation for her fickleness for a 
moment overpowered every other feeling. 

*^ Faithless — perjured !" cried I, striding across 
the room. But another glance at that beautiful 
being in distress checked all my wrath. Anger 
could not dwell together with her idea in my 

soul. 

" Oh ! Bianca," exclaimed X, in anguish, " could 
I have dreamt of this? Could X have suspected 
you would have been false to me ?" 



THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 167 

« 

She raised her face all streaming with tears, 
all disordered with emotion, and gave me one 

appealing look. " False to you ! They told 

me you were dead !" 

" What," said I, " ija spite of our constant 
correspondence ?" 

She gazed wildly at me :' " Correspondence ! 
what correspondence ?" 

" Have you not repeatedly received and re- 
plied to my letters ?" 

She clasped her hands with .solemnity and 
fervour. " As I hope for mercy — ^never !*' 
. A horrible surmise shot through my brain. 
" Who told you I was dead ?" 

" It was reported that the ship in which you 
embarked for Naples perished at sea." 

" But who told you the report ?" 

She paused for an instant and trembled : — 
^' FiUppo !" 

" May the God of heaven curse him !" cried 
I, extending my clenched fists aloft. 

" O do not curse him, do not curse him !'' 
exclaimed she : f^ he is — he is — my husband !" 



/ 



168 THE STORY OF 

This was all that was wanting to unfold the 
perfidy that had been practised upon me. My 
blood boiled like liquid fire in my veins. I 
gasped with rage too great for utterance — I re- 
• mained for a time bewildered by the whirl of 
horrible thoughts that rushed through my mind. 
The poor victim of deception before me thought 
it was with her I was incensed. She faintly 
murmured forth her exculpation. I will not 
dwell upon it. I saw in it more than she meant 
to reveal. I saw with a glance how both of us 
had been betrayed. 

*^ 'Tis well," muttered I to myself in smo- 
thered accents of concentrated fury. " He 
shall render an iaccount of all this." 

Bianca overheard me. New terror flashed in 
her countenance. ^* For mercy's sake, do not 
meet him ! — Say nothing of what has passed — 
for my sake say nothing to him — I only shall be 
the sufferer !" 

A new suspicion darted across my mind — 
" What !" exclaimed I, " do you then fear him ? 
is he unkind to you ? Tell me," reiterated I, 



THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 169 

griping her hand, and looking her eagerly in 
the face, " tell me — dares he to use you 
harshly ?" 

" No ! no ! no !" cried she, faltering and em- 
barrassed — but the glance at her face had told* 
me volumes. I saw in her pallid and wasted 
features, in the prompt terror and subdued 
agony of her eye, a whole history of a mind 
broken down by tyranny. Great God ! and was 
this beauteous flower snatched from me Xo be 
thus trampled upon ? The idea roused me 
to madness. I clenched my teeth and my hands ; 
I foamed at the mouth ; every passion seemed 
to have resolved itself into the fury that like a 
lava boiled within my heart. Bianca shi^unk 
from me in speechless affright. As. I strode 
by the window my eye darted down the alley. 
Fatal moment ! I beheld Filippo at a distance ! 
my brain was in delirium — I sprang from the 
pavilion, and was before him with the quickness 
rf lightning. He saw me as I came rushing 
upon him — he turned pale, looked wildly to 



170 THE STORY OF 

right and left as if he would have fled, and 
trembling drew his sword. 

" Wretch !" cried I, " well may you draw 
your weapon !" 

I spake not another word — I snatched forth 
a stiletto, put by the sword which trembled in 
his hand, and buried my poniard in his bosom. 
He fell with the blow, but my rage was unsated. 
I sprung upon him with the blood-thirsty feeling 
of a tiger ; redoubled my blows ; mangled him 
in my frenzy, grasped him by the throat, until 
with reiterated wounds and strangling convul- 
sions he expired in my grasp. I remained 
glaring on the countenance, horrible in death, 
that seemed to stare back with its protruded 
eyes upon me. Piercing shrieks roused me from 
my delirium. I looked round, and beheld Bi- 
anca flying distractedly towards us. My brain 
whirled — I waited not to meet her; bi|t fled 
from the scene of horror. I fled forth from the 
garden like another Cain, — a hell within my 
bosom, and a curse upon my head. I fled 



THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 171 

without knowing whither, ahnost without know- 
ing why. My only idea was to get farther and 
farther from the horrors I had left behind ; as if 
I could throw space between myself and my 
conscience. I fled to the Apennines, and wan- 
dered for^ days and days among their savage 
heights. How I existed, I cannot tell — what 
rocks and precipices I braved, and how I braved 
them, I know not. I kept on and on, trying to 
out-travel the curse that clung to me. Alas ! 
the shrieks of Bianca rung for ever in my ears. 
The horrible countenance of my victim was for 
ever before my eyes. The blood of Filippo 
cried to me from the ground. Rocks, trees, and 
torrents all resounded with my crime. Then it 
was I felt how much more insupportable is the 
anguish of remorse than every other mental 
pang. Oh! could I but have cast off this 
crime that festered in my heart — could X but 
have regained the innocence th9,t reigned in my 
breast as I entered the garden at Sestri — could I 
but have restored my victim to life, I felt as if 



172 THE STORY OF 

I could look on with transport, even though 
Bianca were in his arms. 

By degrees this frenzied fever of remorse set- 
tled into a permanent malady of the mind — into 
one of the most horrible that ever poor wretch 
was cursed with. Wherever I went, the coun- 
tenance of him I had slain appeared to follow 
me. Whenever I turned my head, I beheld it 
behind me, hideous with the contortions of the 
dying moment. I have tried in every way to 
escape from this horrible phantom, but in vain. 
I know not whether it be an illusion to the mind, 
the consequence of my dismal education at the 
convent, or whether a phantom really sent by 
Heaven to punish me, but there it ever is— at 
all times— r in all places. Nor has time nor habit 
had any effect in familiarizing me with its 
terrors. I have travelled from place to place — 
plunged into amusements — tried dissipation and 
distraction of every kind— all— all in vain. I 
once had recourse to my pencil, as a desperate 
experiment. I painted an exact resemblance of 



THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 178 

this phantom face. I placed it before me, in 
hopes that by constantly contemplating the 
copy, I might diminish the effect of the ori- 
ginal. But I only doubled instead of diminish- 
ing the misery. Such is the curse that has 
clung to my footsteps —that has made my life 
a burthen, but the thought of death terrible. 
God knows what I have suffered — what days and 
days, and nights and nights of sleepless torment 
—what a never-dying worm has preyed upon my 
heart — what an unquenchable fire has burned 
within my brain ! He knows the wrongs that 
wrought upon my poor weak nature ; that con- 
verted the tenderest of affections into the dead- 
liest of fury. He knows best whether a frail 
erring creature has expiated by long-enduring 
torture and measureless remorse the crime of a 
moment of madness. Often, often have I pro- 
strated myself in the dust, and implored that he 
would give me a sign of his forgiveness, and 
let me die. 



Thus far had I written some time since. I 



174 THE STORY OF 

had meant to leave this record of misery and 
crime with you, to be read when I should be no 
more. 

My prayer to Heaven has at length been 
heard. You were witness to my emotions last 
evening at the church, when the vaulted temple 
resounded with the words of atonement and re- 
demption. I heard a voice speaking to me from 
the midst of the music ; I heard it rising above 
the pealing of the organ and the voices of the 
choir — ^it spoke to me in tones of celestial me- 
lody — it promised mercy and forgiveness, but 
demanded from me full expiation. I go to 
make it. To-morrow I shall be on my way to 
Genoa, to surrender myself to justice. You 
who have pitied my sufferings, who have poured 
the balm of sympathy into my wounds, do not 
shrink from my memory with abhorrence now 
that you know my story. Recollect, when you 
read of my crime I shall have atoned for it with 
my blood ! 



THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 175 

When the Baronet had finished, there was a 
universal desire expressed to see the painting of 
this frightful visage. After much entreaty the 
Baronet consented, on condition that they should 
only visit it one by one. He called his house- 
keeper, and gave her charge to conduct the gen- 
tlemen, singly, to the chamber. They all re- 
turned varying in their stories. Some affected 
in one way, some in another ; some more, some 
less ; but all agreeing that there was a certain 
something about the painting that had a very 
odd effect upon the feelings. 

I stood in a deep bow window with the Ba- 
ronet, and could not help expressing my wonder. 
" After all," said I, " there are certain mysteries 
in our nature, certain inscrutable impulses and 
influences, which warrant one in being super- 
stitious. Who can account for so many per- 
sons of different characters being thus strangely 
affected by a mere painting ?" 

" And especially when not one of them has 
seen it !" said the Baronet, with a smile. 

" How !" exclaimed I, " not seen it ?" 



176 THE STORY OF THE yOUNG ITALIAN. 

" Not one of them ["replied he, laying his finger 
on his lips, in sign of secrecy. " I saw that some 
of them were in a bantering vein, and I did not 
choose that the memento of the poor Italian 
should be made a jest of. So I gave the house- 
keeper a hint to show them all to a different 
chamber !" 



Thus end the stories of the Nervous Gen- 
tleman. 



PART II. 



BUCKTHORNE 



AMD UM 



FRIENDS. 



This world is the best that we live iti^ 

To lend, or to spend, or to give in ; 

But to beg, or to borrow, or get a man's own, 

'Tis the veiy worst world, sir, that ever was known. 

Links from aii ikm window. 



VOL. I. N 



LITERARY LIFE. 



Among other objects of a traveller's curiosity, 
I had at one time a great craving after anec* 
dotes of literary life ; and being at London, one 
of the most noted places for the production of 
books, I was excessively anxious to know some- 
thing of the animals which produced them. 
Chance fortunately threw me in the way of a 
literary man by the name of Buckthome, an 
eccentric personage, who had lived much in the 
metropolis, and could give ma tibe natural hi- 
story of every odd animal to be met with in 
that wilderness g( men* He readily imparted to 
me some useful hints upc^ the subject of my 
inquiry. 

** The literary wOTld," said he, " is made up 
of little confederacies, each looking upon its own 
members as the lights of the universe ; and con- 

N 2 



180 LITERARY LIFE. 

sidering all others as mere transient meteors^ 
doomed soon to fall and be forgotten, while its 
own luminaries are to shine steadily on to im- 
mortality." 

^ And pray," said I, " how is a man to get 
a peep into those confederacies you speak of? 
I presume an intercourse with authors is a 
kind of intellectual exchange, where one must 
bring his commodities to barter, and always 
give a quid pro quo^ 

" Pooh, pooh ! how you mistake," said Buck- 
thome, smiling ; " you must never ^nk to be- 
come popular among wits by shining. They go 
into society to shine themselves, not to admire 
the brilUancy of others. I once thought as you 
do, and never went into literary society without 
studying my part beforehand ; the consequence 
was,, I soon got the name of an intolerable 
proser, and should, in a little while, have been 
completely excommunicated, had I not changed 
my plan of operations. No, sir, there is no cha- 
racter that succeeds so well among wits as that 
of a good listener ; or if ever you are eloquent. 



LITERARY LIFE. 181 

let it be when t^te-^-t^te with an author, and 
then in praise of his own works, or, what is 
nearly as acceptable, in disparagement of the 
works of his contemporaries. If ever he speaks 
favourably of the productions of a particular 
friend, dissent boldly from him ; pronounce his 
friend to be a blockhead ; never fear his being 
vexed ; much as people speak of the irritability 
of authors, I never found one to take offence at 
such contradictions. No, no, sir, authors are 
particularly candid in admitting the faults of 
their friends. 

** Indeed I would advise you to be extremely 
sparing of remarks on all modern works, except- 
ing to make sai'castic observations on the most 
distinguished writers of the day." 

" Faith," said I, " I '11 praise none that have 
not been dead for at least half a century." 

" Even then," observed Mr. Buckthome, " I 
would advise you to be rather cautious ; for you 
must know that many old writers have been en- 
listed under the banners of different sects, and 
their merits have become as completely topics 



183 LITERARY LIFE. 

of party discussion as the merits of living states- 
men and politicians^ Nay, there have been 
whole periods of literature absolutely taboo'd, to 
uie a South Sea phrase. It is, for example, as 
much as a man's critical reputation is worth, in 
some circles, to say a word in praise of any of 
the writers of the reign of Charles the Second, 
or even of Queen Annie, they being all declared 

Frenchmen in disguise." 

" And pray," said I, " when am I then to 
know that I am on safe grounds, being totally 
unacquainted with the literary landmarks, and 
the boundary-line of fashionable taste ?" 

" Oh !" replied he, " there is fortunately one 
tract of literature which forms a kind of neutral 
ground, on which all the literary meet amicably, 
and run riot in the excess of their good humour, 
and this is the reigns of Elizabeth and J^oaes ; 
here you may praise away at random. Here it 
is '^cut and come again;" and the more ob- 
scure the author, and the more quaint and 
crabbed his style, the more your admiration 
will smack of the real relish of the connois- 



LITERARY LIFE. 183 

seur, whose taste, like that of an epicure, is 
always for game that has an antiquated flavour. 
** But," continued he, " as you seem anxious 
to know something of literary society, I will take 
an opportunity to introduce you to some co- 
terie, where the talents of the day are assem- 
bled. I cannot promise you, however, that they 
will all be of the first order. Somehow or other, 
our great geniuses are not gregarious ; they do 
not go in flocks, but fly singly in general society. 
They prefer mingling, like common men, with 
the multitude, and are apt to carry nothing of 
the author about them but the reputation. It 
is only the inferkn: orders that herd together, 
acquire strength and importance by their con- 
fedjfjrtcies, and bear all the distinctive cha^ 
raeterisijcs of their spedes." 



A LITERARY DINNER. 



A FEW days s^r tiiis conversation with Mr. 
Buckthome,he called upon me, and took me with 
him to a regidar literary dinner. It lyas given hy 
a great bookseller, or rather a company of bodo- 
sellers, whose firm surpassed in length that of 
Shadrach, Meshech, and Abednego. 

I was surprised to find between twenty and 
thirty guests assembled, most of whom I had 
never seen before. Mr. Buckthome explained 
this to me by informing me that this was a 
business dinner, or kind of field^^^, which the 
house gave about twice a year to its authors. It 
is true they did occasionally give snug dinners 
to three or four literary men at a time; but 
then these were generally select authors, fa- 
vourites of the public, such as had arrived at 
their sixth or seventh editions. " There arc,"* 



A LITERARY DINNER. 185 

said he, ^^ certain geographical boundaries in the 
land of literature, and you may judge tolerably 
well of an author's popularity by the wine his 
bcx)kseller gives him. An author crosses the 
port line about the third edition^ and gets into 
claret ; and when he has reached the sixth 
or seventh, he may revel in champagne and bur- 
gundy." 

" And pray," said I, "how far may these gen- 
tlemen have reached that I see around me ; are 
any of these claret drinkers ?"' 

" Not exactly, not exactly. You find at these 
great dinners the common steady run of authors, 
one, two edition men ; or if any others are in- 
vited, they ^e aware that it is a kind of repub- 
lican meeting.— You understand . me — a meet- 
ing of the republic of letters; and that they 
must expect nothing but plain, substantial fare." 
These' hints enabled me to comprehend more 
fully the arrangement of the table. The two 
ends were occupied by two partners of the house ; 
and the host seemed to have adopted Addison's 
idea as to the literary precedence of his guests. 



186 A LITERARY DINNER. 

A popular poet had the post of honour; op- 
porite to wfacHU was a hot-pressed traveller in 
quarto with plates. A grave-looking antiquarian, 
who had produced several solid works, that were 
much quoted and little read, was treated with 
great respect, and seated next to a neat dressjr 
gentleman in blade, who had written a thin,^ 
genteel, hot-pressed octavo on political economy, 
that was getting into fashion. Several three 
volume duodedmo men, of fair currency, were 
placed about the centre of the table ; while the 
lower end was taken up with small poets, trans- 
lators, and authors who had not as yet risen 
into much notoriety. 

The conversation during dinner was by fits 
and starts; breaking out here and there in 
various parts of the table in smaH flashes, and 
ending in smoke. The poet who had the am- 
iidenoe of a man on good terms with the world, 
and independent of his bookseller, was very gay 
and brilliant, and said many clever things whidi 
set the parthar next him in a roar, and delighted 
sil the company. The other partner, however. 



A LITJEEARY DINNER. 187 

maintamed his sedateness, and kept caxving oii> 
ivith tlie air of a thorough man of business, 
intent upon the occupation of the mc»nent. His 
gravity was explained to me by my friend Buck* 
thome. He informed me that the concerns of 
the house were admirably distributed among the 
partners. " Thus, for instance," said he, " the 
'grave gentleman is the carving partner, who 
attends to the joints ; and the otibier is the laugh- 
ii^ partner, who attends to the jokes.'' 

The general conversation was chiefly carried 
on at the upper end of the table, as the authors 
there seemed to possess the ^eatest courage of 
the tongue. As to the crew at the^ower end, 
if they did not make much figure in talking, 
they did in eating. Never was there a more 
determined, inveterate, thoroughly sustained at* 
tack on the trencher than by this phalanx of 
masticators. When the cloth was removed, and 
the wine began to circulate, they grew very 
merry and jocose ^ong themselves. Thek 
jokes, however, if by chance any of ihem reached 
the upper end of the table, jseldom produced 



188 A LlTEllAKY DINNER. 

much effect. Even the laughing partner did 
not seem to think it necessary to honour them 
with a smile ; which my neighbour Buckthome 
accounted for, by informing me that there was 
a . certain degree of popularity to be obtained 
before a bookseller could afford to laugh at an 
author's jokes. 

Among this crew of questionable gentlemen 
thus seated below the salt, my eye singled out 
one in particular. He was rather shabbily 
dressed; though he had evidently made the 
most of a rusty black coat, and wore his shirt 
frill plaited and puffed out voluminously at the 
bosom. His face was dusky, but florid, perhaps 
a little too florid, particularly about the nose ; 
though the rosy hue gave the greater lustre to 
a twinkling black eye. He had a little the look 
of a boon companion, with that dash of the 
poor devil in it which gives an inexpressibly 
mellow tone to a man's humour. I had seldom 
seen a face of richer promise ; but never was 
promise so ill kept. He said nothing, ate and 
drank with the keen appetite of a garreteer. 



A LITERARY DINGER. 189 

and scarcely stopped to Idugh^ even at the good 
jokes from the upper end of the table. I in- 
quired who he was. Buckthome looked at 
him attentively : " Gad, said he, *^ I have seen 
that face before, but where I cannot recollect. 
He cannot be an author of any note. I suppose 
some writer of sermons, or grinder of foreign 
travels." 

After dinner we retired to another room to 
take tea and coffee, where we were reinforced 
by a cloud of inferior guests, — authors of small 
volumes in boards, and pamphlets stitched in 
blue paper. These had not as yet arrived to 
the importance of a dinner invitation, but were 
invited ' occasionally to pass the evening ^^ in a 
friendly way." They were very respectful to 
the partners, and, indeed, seemed to stand a 
little in awe of them ; but they paid devoted 
court to the lady of the house, and were extra- 
vagantly fond of the children. Some few, who 
did not feel confidence enough to make such 
advances, stood shyly off in comers, talking to 
one another; or turned over the portfolios of 



190 A LITERARY DINNER. 

prints, which they had not seen above five thou- 
sand times, or moused over the music on the 
forte-piano. 

The poet and the thin octavo gentleman were 
the persons most current and at their ease in the 
drawing-room ; being men evidently of circula- 
tion in the west end. They got on each side 
of the lady of the house, and paid her a thousand 
compliments and civilities^ at some of which I 
thought she would have expired with delight. 
Every thing they said and did had the odour 
of fashionable life. I looked round in vain for 
the poor devil author in the rusty black coat ; 
he had disappeared immediately after leaving 
the table, having a dread, no doubt, of the 
glaring light of a drawing-room. Finding no^ 
thing further to interest my attention, I tock 
my departure soon after coffee had been served, 
leaving the poet, and the thin, genteel, hot- 
pressed, octavo gentleman, masters of the fidd. 



THE CLUB OF QUEER FELLOWS. 



I THINK it was the very next eyening that, 
in coming out of Covent Oarden Theatre^ with 
my eccentric friend Buckthome, he proposed to 
give me another peep at life and character. 
Finding me willing for any research of the 
kind^ he took me through a variety of the 
narrow courts and lanes about Covent Garden 
until we stopped before a tavern from which we 
heard the bursts of merriment ci a jovial party. 
There would be a loud peal of laughter, then an 
. interval, then another peal, as if a prime wag 
were telling a story. After a little while there 
w|i3 a song, and at the close of each stanza a 
hearty roar, and a vehement thumping on the 
table. 

^^ This is the place," whispered Buckthorne ; 



193 THE CLUB OF QUEER FELLOWS. 

" it is the club of queer fellows, a great resort 
of the small wits, third-rate actors, and news- 
paper critics of the theatres. Any one can go 
in on paying a sixpence at the bar for the use 
of the club." 

We entered, therefore, without ceremony, and 
took our seats at a lone table in a dusky comer 
of the room. The club was assembled round a 
table, on which stood beverages of various kinds, 
according to the. tastes of the individuals. The 
members were a set of queer fellows indeed; 
but what was my surprise on recognmng in tbe 
prime wit of the meeting the poor devil author 
whom I had remarked at the bookseller's dinner 
for his promising face and his complete tad-^ 
tumity. Matters, however, were entirely changed 
with him. There he was a mere cipher ; here 
he was lord of the ascendant, the choice spirit, 
the dominant genius. He sat at the bead of 
the table with his hat on, and an eye beaming 
even more luminously than his nose. He had a 
quip and a fiUip for every one, and a good thing 
on every occasion. Nothing could be said or 



THE CLUB OF QUKER FELLOWS. 19S 

done without eliciting a spark from him ; and I 
solemnly declare I have heard much worse wit 
even from noblemen. His jokes, it must be 
confessed, were rather wet, but they suited the 
circle over which he presided. The company 
were in that maudlin mood, when a little wit 
goes a great way. Every time he opened his 
lips there was sure to be a roar ; and even some- 
times before he had time to speak. 

We were fortunate enough to enter in time 
for a glee composed by him expressly for the 
dub, and which he sang with two boon com- 
panions who would have been worthy subjects 
for Hogarth's pencil. As they were each pro- 
vided with a written copy, I was enabled to pro- 
cure the reading of it : 

Merrily, merrily push round the glass. 

And merrily troll the glee. 
For he who won't drink till he wink is an ass. 

So, neighbour, I drink to thee. 

Merrily, merrily fiiddle thy nose. 

Until it right rosy shall be -, 
Ftnr a jolly red nose, I speak under the rose. 

Is a sign of good company. 

VOL. I. O 



194 THE CLUB OF QUEEll FELLOWS. 

We waited until the party broke up, and no one 
but the wit remained. He sat at the table with 
his legs stretched under it, and wide apart ; his 
hands in his breeches pockets ; his head drooped 
upon his breast; and gazing, with lack-lustre 
countenance, on an empty tankard. His gaiety 
was gone, his fire completely quenched. 

. My companion approached, and startled him 
from his fit of brown study, introducing himself 
on the strength of their having dined together 
at the booksellers. 

" By the way," said he, " it seems to me I 
have seen you before ; your face is surely that 
of an old acquaintance, though for the life of 
me I cannot tell where I have known you." 

" Very likely," replied he with a smile ; " many 
of my old friends have forgotten me. Though, 
to tell the truth, my memory in this instance is 
as bad as your own. If, however, it will assist 
your recollection in any way, my name is Tho- 
mas Dribble, at your service." 

" What ! Tom Dribble, who was at old 
Birchell's school in Warwickshire ?" 



THB CLUB OF QU££R FELLOWS. 195 

" Tie same,'" said the ^her coolly. 

^^ Why, then, we are old schoolmates, though 
it* s no wojider you don't recollect me. I wm 
your junior by several years ; don't you recol- 
lect little Jack Buckt^me. ?" 

HJere tib^e ensued a scene of school-fellovr 
nooogniiyion, end a world of talk about (M school 
times and school jxranks. Mr^ Dribble ended by 
observing, with a heavy sigh, ^^ that times were 
sadly changed since those days." 

" Fiuth, Mr. Dribble," said I, " you seem 
qpite a different man here from what you wer» 
at dinner. I had no idea that you had so madx 
stuff in you. There you were all silence, but 
here you absolutely keep the table in a roar." 

^^ Ah ! my dear sir," replied he, with a shake 
of the head and a shrug of the «ihoulder, ^^ I'm 
a mer^ gloiinnvonn. J never shine by daylight. 
Besides, jet's a liard thing for a poor devil of an 
author to shine at the table of a rich booksdUer. 
Whp do ypu think would lau^ ^ any thing I 
could aay, when I had some of the ^curveujfc wjts 
of the day about me ? But here, tho^gjh a poor 

o 2 



^ 



196 THE CLUB OF QUEER FELLOWS. 

devil, I am among still poorer devils than my- 
self ; men who look up to me as a man of letters, 
and a bel-esprit, and all my jokes pass as sterling 
gold from the mint." 

" You surely do yourself injustice, sir," said 
I ; *^ I have certainly heard more good things 
from you this evening than from any of those 
beaux-esprits by whom you appear to have been 
so daunted." 

'^ Ah, sir ! but they have luck on thdr aide: 
they are in the fashion — ^there 's nothing like 
being in fashion. A man that has once got his 
character up for a wit is always sure of a laugh, 
say what he may. He may utter as much non- 
sense as he pleases, and all will pass current. 
No one stops to question the coin of a ridi man ; 
but a poor devil cannot pass off either a joke or 
a guinea without its being examined on both 
sides. Wit and coin are always doubted with 

a thread-bare coat." 
.. » . . 
'* For my part," continued he, giving his hat 

a twitch a little more on one side, ** for my part 

I hate your fine dinners ; there 's nothing, sir, 



THE CLUB OF QUEER FELLOWS* 197 

like the fireedpm of a chop-house. I 'd rather, 
any time, have my steak and tankard among my 
own set, than drink claret and eat venison ^th 
your. cursed civil, elegant company, who never 
laugh at a good joke from a poor devil for fear 
of its being vulgar. A good joke grows in a 
wet soil ; it flourishes in low places, but withers 
cm your, d — d high, dry grounds. I once kept 
high company, sir, until I nearly ruined myself, 
L grew so dull, and vapid, and genteel. Nothing 
saved me but being arrested by my landlady, 
and thrown into prison ; where a course of catch 
diibs, eight-penny ale, and poor devil company, 
manured my mind, and brought it back to itself 
again." 

As it was now growing late, we parted for the 
ev^iing, though I felt anxious to know more of 
this practical philosopher. I was glad, there^ 
fore, when Buckthome proposed to have another 
meeting, to talk over old school-tim.es,— and in- 
quired his schoolmate's address. The latter 
seemed at first a little shy of naming his lodg- 
ings ; but suddenly assuming an air of hp^rdi^ 



198 THE CLUB OF QUEER FELLOWS. 

hood — ^^ Greea-aifKnir-court, m,"* exdaimed 
he — ^ Number — ^m Greea-sabcmr-^xfarL Ytm 
nrast kaaw the place. ClasBic gnmndy aiiy 
classie ground ! It wad there Goldsmith wiofee 
his Vicsr of Wakefield. — I always like to hve 
in Uterarj haunts.'' 

I was amused vdth this whimsical apology for 
shabby quarters. On our way hcmiewards Buck* 
thome assured me that this I>ribble had beea the 
prime wit and great wag of the school in their 
boyish days, and one of those unlucky urohini 
denominated bright geniuses. As he perceived 
me curious respecting his old schoolmate, he 
promised to take me with him in his proposed 
Tisit to Gieen^bour^ourt. 

A few mornings afterwards he called upcm 
me, and we set forth on our expeditk>n. He 
led me through a variety of singular alleys^ aad 
coinrts, and blind passages^ for he appettwd to 
be perfectly versed in all the intricate geography 
of the metropolis. At length we came out upon 
Fleet-market, and traversing it, turned up ^ nar- 
row street to the bottom of a long steep flight of 



THE CLUB OF QUEEK FELLOWS. 1,99 

stoiie steps, called Break-neck stairs. These, 
he told mey led up to. Green-arbour-court, and 
diat down them poor Gh)ldsmith might maxij a 
time have risked his neck. When we entered 
die court, I could not but smile to think in 
what out of the way c(»mers genius produces 
her bantlings ! And the Muses, those capricious 
dames, who, forsooth, so often refuse to visit pa- 
laces, and deny a single smile to votaries in 
q^^ndid studies and gilded drawing-rooms — 
what holes and burrows will they frequent to 
lavish their favours on some ragged disciple ! 

This Green-arbour-court I found to be a 
small square, of tall and miserable houses, the 
very intestines of which seemed turned inside 
out, to judge from the old garments and frip^ 
^ery that fluttered from every window. It ap- 
peared to be a region of washerwomen, and 
lines were stretched about the little square, on 
#hi€h clothes were dangling to dry. 

Just as we entered the square, a scuffle look 
jiace between two viragos about a disputed right 



200 TH£ CLVB OF QUEER FELLOWS. 

to a washtub, and immediately the whole com* 
momity was in a hubbub. Heads in mob-cafi6 
popped out of every window, and sueh a clamour 
of tongues ensued, that I was fain to stop my 
ears. Every amazon took part with one or 
other of the disputants, and brandished her arms, 
dripping with soap-suds, and fired away from 
her window as from the embrazure of a fortress ; 
while the swarms of children nestled and cradled 
in every procreant chamber of this hive, waking 
with the noise, set up their shrill pipes to swell 
the general concert 

Poor Goldsmith ! what a time must he have 
had of it, with his quiet disposition and nei;- 
vous habits, penned up in this den of noise and 
vulgaritye How strange that while every sight 
and sound was sufficient to embitter the heart 
wd fill it with misanthropy, his pen should be 
dropping the honey of Hybla. Yet it is. more 
than probable that he drew many of his inimi- 
table pictiires of low life from the scenes which 
surrounded him in this abode. The circum-^ 



THE CLUB OF QUEER FELLOWS. 801 

gtaace of Mrs. Tibbs being oUiged to wash her 
husband's two shirts in a neighbour's house, who 
ic&ised to lend her washtub, may have been 
no qx>rt of fancy, but a fact passing under his 
«iwn eye. His landlady may hate sat foir.th^ 
picture, and Beau Tibbs' scanty wardrobe have 
been aj^c simile of his own. 

It was with some difficulty that we found our 
way to Dribble's lodgings. They were up two 
pair of stairs, in a room that looked upon the 
court, and when we entered, he was seated on 
the edge of his bed, writing at a broken table. 
He received us, however, with a free, open, poor- 
devil air, that was irresistible. It is true he did 
at first appear slightly confused ; buttoned up 
his waistcoat a little higher, and tucked in a 
stray frill of linen. But he recollected him- 
self in an instant; gave a half-swagger, half- 
leer as he stepped forth to receive us ; drew a 
tihree-l^^d stool for Mr. Buckthome ; pointed 
me to a lumbering old damask chair, that looked 
like a dethroned monarch in exile, and bade us 
welcome to his garret. 



SOS THE CLUB 0F QUEER FELLOWg. 

We soon got engaged in omversation. Budc- 
tlionie and he had mudi to say about early 
idbffiiol Bee&es} and as notimig o^mB^ a^nian^'g heart 
Mioie thtai recollections of the kind, we soon 
dvew from him a Imef outline ^ his liteiafy 
eareer. 



THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOB. 



I BEGAN life unluckily by being the wag and 
bright fellow at school ; and I had the further 
misfortune of becoming the great genius of my 
native Tillage. My father was a country attorney, 
and intended that I should succeed him in bu- 
siness ; but I had too much genius to study, and 
he was too fond of my genius to force it into 
the traces ; so I fell into bad company, and took 
to bad habits. Do not mistake me. I mean 
that I fell into the company of village literati, 
and village blues, and took to writing village 
poetry. 

It was quite the fashion in the village to be 
literary. There was a little knot of choice spirits 
<xf us, who assembled frequently together, formed 
ovrselves inta a literary, sdeiitific, and phikv 
sophical society, and fancied ourselves the most 
learned Philos in existence. Every one had a 



204 THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 

great character assigned him, suggested by some 
casual habit or affectation. One heavy fellow 
drank an enormous quantity of tea, rolled in 
his arm-chair, talked sententiously, pronounced 
dogmatically, and was considered a second Dr. 
Johnson ; another, who happened to be a curate, 
uttered coarse jokes, wrote doggerel rhymes, 
and was the Swift of our association. Thus we 
had also our Popes, and Goldsmiths, and Addi- 
sons ; and a blue stocking lady, whose drawing* 
room we frequented, who corresponded about 
nothing with all the world, and wrote letters 
with the stiffness and formality of a printed 
book, was cried up as another Mrs. Montagu* 
I was, by common consent, the juveiUle prodigy, 
the poetical youth, the great genius, the pride 
and hope of the village, through whom . it was 
to become one day as celebrated as Stratford 
on Avon. 

My father died, and left me his blessing and 
his busdness. His blessing brought no mo- 
ney into my pocket; and as to his business, it 
soon de^rted me, for I was busy writing poetry. 



THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. S0$ 

and could not attend to law ; and my clients, 
though they had great respect for my talents, 
had no fstith in a poetical attorney. 

I lost my business, therefore, spent my money, 
and finifibed my poem. It was the Pleasures of 
Melancholy, and was cried up to the skies by 
the whole circle. The Pleasures of Imagination, 
the Pleasures of Hope, and the Pleasures of 
Memory, though each had placed its author in 
the first rank of poets, were blank prose in com* 
parison. Our Mrs, Montagu would cry over it 
from beginning to end. It was pronounced by 
all the members of the literary, scientific, and 

l^osophical society, the greatest poem of the 
age, and aU anticipated the noise it would make 
in the great world. There was not a doubt but the 
London booksellers would be mad after it, and 
the only fear of my friends was, that I would 
make a sacrifice by selling it too cheap. Every 
time they talked the matter over they increased 
the price. ^ They reckoned up the great sums 
given for the poems of certain popular writers, 
and determined that mine was worth more than 



a06 THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOB. 



all put together, and ought to be paid for ic^ 
cordingly. For my party I was modert in my 
expectations, and determined that I would be 
satisfied with a thousand guineas. So I put my 
poem in my pocket, and set off for London. 

My journey was joyous. My heart was light 
as my purse, and my head full of anticipations 
of fame and fortune. With what swelling pride 
did I cast my eyes upon old London from the 
heights of Highgate. I was like a general lode* 
ing down upon ^ place he expects to conquer. 
The great metropolis lay stretehed before me, 
buried under a home-made cloud of murky smoke, 
that wrapped it from the brightness of a sunny 
da)r, and formed for it a kind of artificial bad 
weather. At the outskirts of the city, away to 
the west, th^ smoke gradually decreased nntil 
all was clear and sunny, and the view stretched 
umnterrupted to the blue line of the KentUh 
hilk. 

My eye turned fondly to where the mighly 
eupola of St Paul swelled dimly Ihrough this 
misty chaps, and I pictured to snyseif die selann 



THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 907 

realm of leamiiig that lies about its base. How 
soon should the Pleasures of Melaachol^ throw 
this world of booksellers and pointers into a 
bustle of business and delight ! How soon should 
I iiear my name repeated by printers' deyife 
throughout Fata:Q06ter-irow and Angel-*c«urt and 
Ave Maria-lane, until Amen*comer should echo 
back the sound ! 

Arrived in town, I repaired at once ito the 
xap^ fashionable puUisher. Every new aur 
th^r patroniise$ him of course. In fact, it had 
bem determined in the village circle that he 
should be the fortunate man. J cannot tell you 
how vain-gloriously I walked, the streets ; my 
ha^d was in the clouds. I felt the airs of heafiea 
ph^yipg about it, and fancied it akeady encBBcM 
hjr a halo of Uter^ ^ory. As I jpa^uiad by H^ 
wiod^ws of bookshops, J aiaiicipa^ked 44^ tibne 
mhm mYnmk would be shinjipg among tl^ h^ 
pp^sa^d woiMlers of the day; and my fao^ 
aeiatched on axp^^^ or cut on wa(4, figuring m 
f^wafaip with time of Spott, and 3yrim, and 



fi08 THE *POOR.DEVIL AUTHOR. 

When I applied at the publisher's house, 
there was something in the loftiness of my air 
and the dfaiginess of my dress that struck the 
clerks with reverence. They doubtless todc me 
for some person of consequence, probably a dig- 
gesr of Greek roots, or a penetrator of pyramids. 
A proud man in a dirty shirt is always an im- 
posing character in the world of letters: one 
must feel intellectually secure before he can ven- 
ture to dress shabbily ; none ]mi a great genius, 
or a great scholar, dares to be dirty ; so I was 
ushered at once to the sanctum sanctorum of 
this high priest of Minerva. 

•The publishing of books is a very different 
affair nowadays from what it was in the time 
of Bernard Lintot. I found the publisher a 
fashionably dressed man, in an el^ant drawing- 
room, furnished with sofas and portraits of cele- 
brated authors, and cases of splendidly bound 
books. He was writing letters at an elegant 
table. This was transacting business in sl^le. 
The place seenied suited to the magnificeilt'f^b- 
lications that issued from it. I rejoiced at the 



\ 



THE POOR-DEVJL AUJ^HOR. 209 

choice I had made of a publisher, for I always 
liked to encourage men of taste and spirit 

I stepped up to the table with the lofty 
poetical port that I had been accustomed to 
maintain in our village circle ; though I threw 
in it something of a patronising air, such as 
one feels when about to make a man's fortune. 
The publisher paused with his pen in his hand> 
and seemed waiting in mute suspense to know 
what was to be announced by so singular 9,n 
apparition. 

I put him at his ease in a moment, for I felt 
that I had but to come, see, and conquer. I 
made known my name, and the name of my 
poem ; produced my precious roll of blotted ma- 
nuscript ; laid it on the table with an emphasis^ 
and told him at once, to save time and come 
directly to the point, the price was one thousand 
guineas. ^ 

I had given him no time to speak, nor did he 
seem so inclined. He continued looking at me 
for a moment with an air of whimsical per- 
plexity ; scanned me from head to foot ; looked 

TOL. I. p 



210 THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 

down at the manuscript, then up again at me, 
then pointed to a chair ; and whistling softly to 
himself, went on writing his letter. 

I sat for some time waiting his reply, sup- 
posing he was making up his mind ; but he only 
paused occasionally to take a fresh dip of ink, 
to stroke his chin, or the tip of his nose, and 
then resumed his writing. It was evident his 
mind was intently occupied upon some other 
subject ; but I had no idea that any other sub- 
ject should be attended to, and my poem lie un- 
noticed on the table. I had supposed that every 
thing would make way for the Pleasures of 
Melancholy. 

My gorge at length rose within me. I took 
up my manuscript, thrust it into my pocket, and 
walked out of the room, making some noise as I 
went out, to let my departure be heard. The 
publisher, however, was tqo much buried in 
minor concerns to notice it. I was suffered to 
walk down stairs without being called back. I 
sallied forth into the street, but no clerk was 
fient after me; nor did the publisher call after 



THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 211 

me from the drawing-room window. I have 
been told since, that he considered me either a 
madman or a fool. I leave you to judge how 
much he was in the wrong in his opinion. 

When I turned the comer my crest fell. I 
cooled down in my pride and my expectations, 
and reduced my terms with the next bookseller 
to whom I applied. I had no better success ; 
Bor with a third ; nor with a fourth. I then de- 
sired the booksellers to make an offer themselves ; 
but the deuce an offer would they make. They 
told me poetry was a mere drug ; every body 
wrote poetry ; the market was overstocked with 
it. And then they said, the title of my poem 
was not taking : that pleasures of all kinds were 
w<Hii threadbare, nothing but horrors did now- 
adays, and even those were almost worn out. 
Tales of Pirates, Robbers, and Bloody Turks 
might answer tolerably well; but then they 
must come from some established, well-known 
name, or the public would not look at them. 

At last I offered to leave my poem with a 
bodcseller to read it and judge for himself. 

p 2 



212 THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 

" Why, really, my dear Mr. a— a — ^I forget 

your name," said he, casting an eye at my rusty 
coat and shabby gaiters, " really, sir, we are so 
pressed with business just now, and have so 
many manuscripts on hand to read, that we have 
not time to look at any new productions; but 
if you can call again in a week or two, or say 
the middle of next month, we may be able to 
look over your writings, and give you an answer. 
Don't forget, the month after next ; good morn- 
ing, sir ; happy to see you any time you are 
passing this way." So saying, he bowed me out 
in the civilest way imaginable. In short, sir, 
instead of an eager competition to secure my 
poem, I could not even get it read! In the 
mean time I was harassed by letters from my 
friends, wanting to know when the work was to 
appear; who was to be my publisher ; but, above 
b31 things, warning me not to let it go too 
cheap. 

There was but one alternative left. I deter- 
mined to publiisb the poem myself; and to have 
my triumph over the booksellers, when it should 



THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOK. 213 

become the fashion of the day. I accordingly 
published the Pleasures of Melancholy, and ruined 
myself. Excepting the copies sent to the re- 
views and to my friends in the country, not one, 
I believe, ever left the bookseller's warehouse* 
The printer's bill drained my purse, and the 
only notice that was taken of my work was 
contained in the advertisements paid for by 
myself. 

I could have borne all this^ and have attri- 
buted it, as usual, to the mismanagement of the 

s 

publisher; or the want of taste in the public; 
and could have made the usual appeal to 
posterity ; but my village friends would not let 
me rest in quiet. They were picturing me to 
themselves feasting with the great, communing 
with the literary, and in the high career of for- 
tune and renown. Every little while some one 

would call on me with a letter of introduction from 
the village circle, recommending him to my 
attentions, and requesting that I would make 
him known in society ; with a hint that an 
introduction to a celebrated literary nobleman 



214 THE POOll-DEVIL AUTHOE. 

would be extremely agreeable. I determined, 
therefore, to change my lodgings, drop my cor- 
respondence, and disappear altogether from the 
view of my village admirers. Besides, I was 
anxious to make one more poetic attempt. I 
was by no means disheartened by the failure of 
my first. My poem was evidently too didactic. 
The public was wise enough. It ho longer read 
for instruction. " They want horrors, do they ?" 
said I : '' I'faith ! then, they shall have enough of 
them." So I looked out for some quiet, retired 
place, where I might be out of reach of my 
friends, and have leisure to cook up some de- 
lectable dish of poetical '^ hell-broth." 

I had some difficulty in finding a place to my 
mind, when chance threw me in the way of Ca- 
nonbury Castle. It is an ancient brick tower, 
hard by ^^ merry Islington ;" the remains of a 
hunting-seat of Queen Elizabeth, where she took 
the pleasure of the country when the neighbour- 
hood was all woodland. What gave it particular 
interest in my eyes was the circumstance that it 
had been the residence of a poet. It was here 



THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 215 

Goldsmith resided when he wrote his Deserted 
Village. I was shown the very apartment. It 
was a relique of the original style of the castle, 
with paneled wainscots and Gothic windows. 
I was pleased with its air of antiquity, and with 
its having been the residence of poor Goldy. 

" Goldsmith was a pretty poet," said I to my- 
self " a very pretty poet, though rather of the 
old school. He did not think and feel so strongly 
as is the fashion nowadays; but had he lived 
in these times of hot hearts and hot heads, he 
would no doubt have written quite differently." 

In a few days I was quietly established in my 

new quarters ; my books all arranged ; my writ- 
ing-desk placed by a window looking out into 
the fields, and I felt as snug as Robinson Crusoe 
when he had finished his bower. For several 
days I enjoyed all the novelty of change and 
the charms which grace new lodgings before 
one has found out their defects. I rambled 
about the fields where I fancied Goldsmith had 
rambled. I explored merry Islington ; ate my 
solitary dinner at the Black Bull, which, according 



916 THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 

to tradition, was a country seat of Sir Walter 
Raleigh, and would sit and sip my wine, and 
muse on old times, in a quaint old room where 
many a council had been held. 

Ail this did very well for a few days ; I was 
stimulated by novelty ; inspired by. the associa- 
tions awakened in my mind by these curious 
haunts ; and began to think I felt the spirit of 
composition stirring within me. But Sunday 
came, and with it the whole city world, swarm- 
ing about Cauonbury Castle. . I could not open 
my window but I was stunned with shouts and 
noises from the cricket ground ; the late quiet 
road beneath my window was alive with the 
tread of feet and clack of tongues ; and, to com- 
plete my misery,' I found that my quiet retreat 
was absolutely a " show house," the tower and 
its contents being shown to strangers at sixpence 
a head. 

There was a perpetual tramping up stairs of 
citizens and their families, to look about the 
country from the top of the tower, and to take 
a peep at the city through the telescope, to try 



THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 217 

if they could discern their own chimneys. And 
then, in the midst of a vein of thought, or a 
moment of inspiration, I was interrupted, and 
all my ideas put to flight, by my intolerable 
landlady's tapping at the door, and asking me 
if I would " just please to let a lady and gen- 
tleman come in, to take a look at Mr. Goldsmith's 
room." If you know any thing what an author's 
study is, and what an author is himself, you 
must know that there was no standing this. I put 
a positive interdict on my room's being exhibited ; 
but then it was shown when I was absent, and 
my papers put in confiision ; and on returning 
home one day I absolutely found a cursed 
tradesmw and his daughters gaping over my 
manuscripts, and my landlady in a panic at my 
appearance. I tried to make out a little longer, by 
taking the key in my pocket ; but it would not 
do. I overheard mine hostess one day telling 
some of her customers on the stairs that the 
room was occupied by an author, who was always 
in a tantrum if interrupted ; and I immediately 
perceived^ by a slight noise at the door^ that they 



318 THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 

were peeping at me through the key-hole. By 
the head of Apollo, but this was quite too much ! 
With all my eagerness for fame, and my ambition 
of the stare of the million, I had no idea of 
being exhibited by retail, at sixpence a head, 
and that through a key-hole. So I bade adieu 
to Canonbury Castle, merry Islington, and the 
haunts of poor Goldsmith, without having ad^ 
vanced a single line in my labours. 

My next quarters were at a small, whiter 
washed cottage, which stands not far from 
Hampstead, just on the brow of a hill, looking 
over Chalk Farm and Camden Town, remark* 
able for the rival houses of Mother Red Cap 
and Mother 31ack Cap ; and so across Crack- 
skull Common, to the distant dty. 

The cottage was in nowise remarkable in 
itself; but I regarded it with reverence, for it 
had been the asylimoi of a persecuted author. 
Hither poor Steele had retreated, and lain 
perdu, when persecuted by creditors and bai- 
liffs — those immemorial plagues of authors and 
free-spirited gentlemen ; and here he had written 



THE POOB*DEVIL AUTHOR. 219 

many numbers of the Spectator. It was from 
hence, too, that he had despatched those little 
notes to his lady, so full of affection and whim- 
sicality, in which the fond husband, the careless 
gentleman, and the shifting spendthrift, were iso 
oddly blended. I thought, as I first eyed the 
window of his apartment, that I could sit within 
it, and write volumes. 

No such thing ! It was hay-making season, 
and, as ill-luck would have it, immediately 
c^posite the cottage was a little ale-house, with 
the sign of the Load of Hay. Whether it was 
there in Steele's time, I cannot say ; but it set 
aU attempts at conception or inspiration at de- 
fiance. It was the resort of all the Irish hay- 
makers who mow the broad fields in the neigh- 
bourhood; and of drovers and teamsters who 

« 

travel that road. Here they would gather in 
the endless summer twilight, or by the light of 
the haxvest moon, and sit round a table at the 
door ; and tipple, and laugh, and quarrel, and 
fight, and sing drowsy songs,, and daudie^ away 



220 THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 

the hours, until the deep solemn notes of St. 
Paul's clock would warn the varlets home. 

In the day-time I was still less able to write. 
It was broad summer. The hay-makers were 
at work in the fields, and the perfume of the 
new-mown hay brought with it the recollection 
of my native fields. So, instead of remaining 
in my room to write, I went wandering about 
Primrose Hill, and Hampstead Heights, and 
Shepherd's Fields, and all those Arcadian scenes 
so celebrated by London bards. I cannot tell you 
how many delicious hours I have passed lying 
on the cocks of new-mown hay, on the pleasant 
slopes of some of those hills, inhaling the fra- 
grance of the fields, while the summer-fly 
buzzed about me, or the grasshopper leaped into 
my bosom; and how I have gazed with half- 
shut eye upon the smoky mass of London, and 
listened to the distant sound of its population, 
and pitied the poor sons of earth, toiling in its 
bowels, like Gnomes in the " dark gold mine." 

People may say what they please about cock- 



THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 221 

ney pastorals, but after all, there is a vast deal 
of rural beauty about the western vicinity of 
London; and any one that has looked down 
upon the valley of West End, with its soft bosom 
of green pasturage lying open to the south, and 
dotted with cattle ; the steeple of Hampstead 
rising among rich groves on the brow of the 
hill ; and the learned height of Harrow in the 
distance ; will confess that never has he seen a 
more absolutely rural landscape in the vicinity 
of a great metropolis. 

Still, however, I found myself not a whit the 
better off for my frequent change of lodgings ; 
and I began to discover that in literature, as 
in trade, the old proverb holds good, " a rolling 
stone gathers no moss." 

The tranquil beauty of the country played 
the very vengeance With me. I could not moimt 
my fancy into the termagant vein. I could not 
conceive, amidst the smiling landscape, a scene 
of blood and murder ; and the smug citizens in 
breeches and gaiters put all ideas o£ heroes and 
bandits out of my brain. I could think of no- 



222 THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOK. 

thing but dulcet subjects, '' the Pleasures of 
Spring"— "the Pleasures of Solitude"—" thePlea- 
sures of Tranquillity" — " the Pleasures of Senti- 
ment" — nothing but pleasures; and I had the 
painful experience of " the Pleasures of Melan- 
choly" too strongly in my recollection to be 
beguiled by them. 

Chance at length befriended me. I had fre- 
quently, in my ramblings, loitered about Hamp^ 
stead Hill, which is a kind of Parnassus of the 
metropolis. At such times I occasionally took 
my dinner at Jack Straw's Castle. It is a 
country inn so named: the very spot where 
that notorious rebel and his followers held their 
council of war. It is a favourite resort of citi- 
zens when rurally inclined, as it commands fine 
fresh air, and a good view of the cityr I sat 
one day in the public room of this inn, rumi- 
nating over a beefsteak and a pint of port, when 
my imagination kindled up with ancient and 
heroic images. I had long wanted a theme and 
a hero ; both suddenly broke upon my mind : 
I determined to write a poem on the history rf 



THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR, 223 

Jack Straw. I was so full of my subject, that 
I was fearful of being anticipated. I wondered 
that none of the poets of the day, in their re- 
searches after ruffian heroes, had ever thought 
of Jack Straw. I went to work pell-mell, blotted 
several sheets of paper with choice floating 
thoughts, and battles, and descriptions, to be 
ready at a moment's warning. In a few days' 
time I sketched out the skeleton of my poem, 
and nothing was wanting but to give it flesh 
and blood. I used to take my manuscript and 
stroll about Caen-wood, and read aloud; and 
would dine at the castle, by way of keeping up 
the vein of thought. 

I was there one day, at rather a late hour, in 
the public room : there was no other company 
but one man, who sat enjoying his pint of port 
at a window, and noticing the passers by. He 
was dressed in a green shooting coat. His 
countenance was strongly marked; he had a 
hooked nose, a romantic eye, excepting that it 
had something of a squint ; and altogether, as I 
thought, a poetical style of head. I was quite 



224 THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 

taken with the man, for you must know I am a 
httle of a physiognomist ; I set him down at 
once for either a poet or a philosopher. 

As I like to make new acquaintances, con- 
sidering every man a volmne of human nature, 
I soon fell into conversation with the stranger, 
who, I was pleased to find, was by no means dif- 
ficult of access. After I had dined, I joined 
him at the window, and we became so sociable, 
that I proposed a bottle of wine together, to 
which he most cheerfully assented. 

I was too full of my poem to keep long qUiet 
on the subject, and began to talk about the 
origin of the tavern and the history of Jack 
Straw. I found my new acquaintance to be per- 
fectly at home on the topic, and to jump exactly 
with my humour in every respect. I became 
elevated by the wine and the conversation. In 
the fulness of an author's feelings, I told him 
of my projected poem, and repeated some pass- 
ages, and he was in raptures. He was evidently 
of a strong poetical turn. 

^^ Sir," said he, filling my glass at the same 



THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 225 

time, " our poets di^'t look at home. I don't 
see why we need go out of old England for 
robbers and rebels to write about. I like your 
Jack Straw, sir — he's a home-made hero. I 
like him, sir — I like him exceedingly. He's 
English to the backbone — damme — Give me 
honest Old England after all ! Them 's my sen- 
timents, sir." 

"I honour your sentiment," cried I, zealously; 
" it is exactly my own. An English ruffian is as 
good a ruffian for poetry as any in Italy, or Ger- 
many, or the Archipelago ; but it is hard to 
make our poets think so." 

" More shame for them !" replied the man in 
green. " What a plague would they have ? What 
have we to do with their Archipelagos of Italy 
and Germany? Haven't we heaths and com- 
mons and highways on our little island — ay, 
and stout fellows to pad the hoof over them too? 
Stick to home, I say — them 's my sentiments. — 
Come, sir, my service to you — I agree with you 
perfectly." 

" Poets, in old times, had right notions on tliis 

VOL. I. Q 



226 THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 

subject," continued I ; " witness the fine old bal- 
lads about Robin Hood, Allan a'Dale, and other 
stanch blades of yore." 

" Right, sir, right," interrupted he ; " Robin 
Hood! he was the lad to cry stand! to a man, 
and never to flinch." 

" Ah, sir, " said I, " they had famous bands 
of robbers in the good old times ; those were 
glorious poetical days. The merry crew of Sher- 
wood forest, who led such a rovmg picturesque 
life * under the greenwood tree.' I have often 
wished to visit their haunts, and tread the scenes 
of the exploits of Friar Tuck, and Clym of the 
Clough, and Sir William of Cloudeslie." 

" Nay, sir," said the gentleman in green, " we 
have had several very pretty gangs since their 
day. Those gallant dogs that kept about the 
great heaths in the neighbourhood of Lond<m» 
about Bagshot, and Hounslow and Blackheath, 
for instance. Come, sir, my service to you. You 
don't drink." 

" I suppose," said I, emptying my glass, " I 
suppose you have heard of the famous Turpin, 



THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 227 

who was bom in this very village of Hampstead, 
and who used to lurk with his gang in Epping 
Forest, about a hundred years since ?" 

** Have I ?" cried he, " to be sure I have ! A 
hearty old blade that. Sound as pitch. Old 
Turpentine ! as we used to call him. A famous 
fine fellow, sir." 

"Well, sir," continued I, "I have visited 
Waltham Abbey and Chingford Church merely 
from the stories I heard when a boy of his ex- 
ploits there, and I have searched Epping Forest 
for the cavern where he used to conceal himself. 
You must know," added I, " that I am a sort of 
amateur of highwaymen. They were dashing, 
daring feUows : the best apologies that we had for 

the knight-errants of yore. Ah, sir ! the cotm- 
try has been sinking gradually into tameness 
and common-place. We are losing the old En« 
^sh spirit. The bold knights of the Post have 
all dwindled down into lurking footpads and 
sneaking pickpockets ; there 's no such thing as 
a dashing, gentleman-like robbery committed 
nowadays on the King's highway : a man may 

Q 2 



228 THE POOIl-BEVII. AUTHOR, 

roll from one end of England to the other in a 
drowsy coach, or jingling postchaise, without any 
other adventure than that of being occasionally 
overturned, sleeping in damp sheets, or having 
an ill-cooked dinner. We hear no more of pub- 
lic coaches being stopped and robbed by a well- 
mounted gang of resolute fellows, with pistols 
in their hands, and crapes over their faces. 
What a pretty poetical incident was it, for ex- 
ample, in domestic life, for a family carriage, 
on its way to a country seat, to be attacked about 
dark; the old gentleman eased of his purse siHd 
watch, the ladies of their necklaces and ear- 
rings, by a politely spoken highwayman on a 
blood mare, who afterwards leaped the hedge, 
and galloped across the country, to the admirar 
tion of Miss Caroline, the daughter^ who would 
write a long and romantic account of the adven- 
ture to her friend, Miss Juliana, in town.— Ah, 
sir! we meet with nothing of such incidents 
nowadays r 

" That, sir," said my companion, taking ad- 
vantage of a pause, when I stopped to recover 



THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 229 

breath, and to take a glass of wine which he had 
just poured out, " that, sir, craving your pardon, 
is not owing to any want of old English pluck. 
It is the effect of this cursed system of banking. 
People do not travel with bags of gold as they 
did formerly. They have post notes, and drafts 
on bankers. To rob a coach is like catching a 
crow, where you have nothing but carrion flesh 
and feathers for your pains. But a coach in old 
times, sir, was as rich as a Spanish galloon. It 
turned out the yeUow boys bravely. And a pri- 
vate carriage was a cool hundred or two at least." 

I cannot express how much I was delighted 
with the sallies of my new acquaintance. He 
told me that he often frequented the Castle, and 
would be glad to know more of me ; and I pro- 
mised myself many a pleasant afternoon with 
him, when I should read him my poem as it 
proceeded, and benefit by his remarks ; for it 
was evident he had the true poetical feeling. 

"Come, sir," said he, pushing the bottle. 
^' Danune, I like you ! you 're a man after my 



230 THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 

own heart. I'm cursed slow in making new 
acquaintances. One must be on the reserve, you 
know. But when I meet with a man of your 
kidney, damme, my heart jumps at once to him. 
Them 's my sentiments, sir. — Come, sir, here 's 
Jack Straw's health ! I presume one can drink 
it nowadays without treason !" 

" With all my heart," said I, gaily, " and 
Dick Turpin's into the bargain !** 

" Ah, sir," said the man in green, " those are 
the kind of men for poetry. The Newgate 
Calendar, sir! the Newgate Calendar is your 
only reading ! There 's the place to look for bold 
deeds and dashing fellows." 

We were so much pleased with each other, 
that we sat until a late hour. I insisted on pay- 
ing the bill, for both my purse and my heart 
were full, and I agreed that he should pay the 
score at our next meeting. As the coaches had 
all gone that run between Hampstead and Lon- 
don, we had to return on foot. He was so de- 
lighted with the idea of my poem, that he could 



THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 231 

talk of nothing else. He made me repeat such 
.passages as I could remember; and though I did 
it in a very mangled manner, having a wretched 
memory, yet he was in raptures. 

Every now and then he would break out with 
some scrap which he would misquote most terri- 
bly, but would rub his hands and exclaim, " By 
Jupiter, that 's fine, that 's noble ! Damme, sir, if 
I can conceive how you hit upon such ideas !'* 

I must confess I did not always relish his mis- 
quotations, which sometimes made absolute non- 
sense of the passages ; but what author stands 
upon trifles when he is praised ? 

Never had I spent a more deUghtful evening. 
I did not perceive how the time flew. I could 
not bear to separate, but continued walking on, 
arm in arm, with him, past my lodgings, through 
Camden-town, and across Crackskull Common, 
talking the whole way about my poem. 

When we were half-way across the common, 
he interrupted me in the midst of a* quotation, 
by telling me that this had been a famous place 
for footpads, and was still occasionally infested 



232 THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 

by them ; aiui that a man had recently been shot 
there in attempting to defend himself. — " The 
more fool he !" cried I ; ^^ a man is an idiot to 
risk life, or even limb, to save a paltry purse of 
money. It's quite a different case firom that ci 
a duel, where one's honour is concerned. For 
my part,** added I, "I should never think 
of making resistance against one of those de- 
speradoes.'' 

** Say you so?" cried my {riend in green, 
turning suddenly upon me, and putting a pistol 
to my breast ; ^^ why, then, have at you, my lad ! 
— come — disburse! empty! unsack!" 

In a word, I found that the muse had played 
me another of her tricks, and had betrayed me 
into the hands of a footpad. There was no 
time to parley ; he made me turn my pockets 
inside out; and hearing the sound of distant 
footsteps, he made one full swoop upon purs^ 
watch, and all; gave me a thwack over my 
unlucky pate that laid me sprawling on the 
ground, and scampered away with his booty. 

I saw no more of my friend in green until a 



THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 233 

year or two afterwards ; when I caught a sight 
rf his poetical countenance among a crew of 
scape-^aces, heavily ironed, who were on the 
way for transportation. He recognised me at 
once, tipped me an impudent wink, and asked 
me how I came on with the history of Jack Straw's 
Castle. 

The catastrophe at Crackskull-common put 
an end to my summer's campaign. I was cured 
of my poetical enthusiasm for rebels, robbers, 
imd highwaymen. I was put out of conceit of 
my subject, and, what was worse, I was lightened 
of my purse, in which was almost every farthing 
I had in the world. So I abandoned Sir Ri- 
chard Steele's cottage in despair, and crept into 
less celebrated, though no less poetical and airy 
lodgings in a garret in town. 

I now determined to cultivate the society of 
the Uterary, and to enrol myself in tl^e fraternity 
of authorship. It is by the constant collision 
of mind, thought I, that authors strike out the 
sparks of genius, and kindle up with glorious 
conceptions. Poetry is evidently a contagious 



234 THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 

complaint: I will keep company witli poets; 
who knows but I may catch it as others have 
done ? 

I foimd no difficulty in making a dicle of 
literary acquaintances, not having the sin of 
success lying at my door ; indeed, the failure of 
my poem was a kind of recommendation to their 
favour. It is true my new friends were not of 
the most brilliant names in literature ; but then, 
if you would take their words for it, they were 
like the prophets of old, men of whom the world 
was not worthy ; and who were to live in future 
ages, when the ephemeral favourites of the day 
iriiould be forgotten. 

I soon discovered, however, that the more I 
mingled in literary society, the less I felt capa^ 
dtated to write ; that poetry was not so catch- 
ing as I imagined ; and that in familiar life 
there was often nothing less poetical than a poet 
Besides, I wanted the esprit du corps to turn 
these literary fellowships to any account. I 
could not bring myself to enlist in any par- 
ticuliur sect : I saw something to like in them all, 



THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 285 

bat found that would never do, for that the 
tadt condition on which a man enters into one 
rf these sects is, that he abuses all the rest 

I perceived that there were little knots of 
authors who lived with, and for, and by one 
another. They considered themselves the salt 
of the earth. They fostered and kept up a con- 
ventional vein of thinking and talking, and 
joking on aU subjects ; and they cried each other 
up to the skies. Each sect had its particular 
GPeed ; and set up certain authors as divinities, 
and fell down and worshipped them ; and con-* 
nldered every one who did not worship them, or 
who worshipped any other, as a heretic and an 
infidel. 

In quoting the writers of the day, I generally 
found them extolling names of which I had 
scarcely heard, and talking slightingly of others 
who were the favourites of the public If I 
mentioned any recent work from the pen of a 
first-rate author, they had not read it ; they had 
not time to read all that was spawned from the 
press ; he wrote too much to write well ;— imd 



236 THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOB. 

then they would break out into raptures about 
some Mr. Timson, or Tomson, or Jackson, whose 
works were n^lected at the present day, but 
who was to be the wonder and delight of poste- 
rity. Alas ! what heavy debts is this neglectful 
world daily accumulating on the shoulders of 
poor posterity ! 

But above all, it was edifying to hear with 
what contempt they would talk of the great Ye 
gods ! how immeasurably the great are despised 
by the small fry of literature ! It is true, an 
exception was now and then made of some no- 
bleman, with whom, perhaps, they had casually 
shaken hands at an election, or hob or nobbed 
at a public dinner, and who was pronounced 
a ^^ devilish good fellow," and ^^ no humbug f 
but, in general, it was enough for a man to have 
a title to be the object of their sovereign dis- 
dain : you have no idea how poetically and phi- 
losophically they would talk of nobility. ; 

For my part, this affected me but little ; for 
though I had no bitterness against the great, 
and did not think the worse of a man for 



THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 237 

having innocently been bom to a title, yet I 
did not feel myself at present called upon to 
resent the indignities poured upon them by 
the little. But the hostility to the great writers 
of the day went sorely against the grain with 
me. . I could iiot enter into such feuds, nor 
participate in such animosities. I had not be- 
come author . sufficiently to hate other authors. 
I could still find pleasure in the novelties of the 
press, and could find it in my heart to praise a 
boiitemporary, even though he were successful. 
Indeed, I was miscellaneous in my taste, and 
could not confine it to any age or growth of 
writers. I could turn with delight from the 
glowing pages of Byron to the cool and polished 
raillery of Pope; and, after wandering among 
the sacred groves of Paradise Lost, I could give 
myself up to voluptuous abandonment in the 
enchanted bowers of Lalla Rookh. 
. " I would have my authors," said I, " as 
various as my wines, and, in relishing the strong 
and the racy, would never decry the sparkling 
and exhilarating. Port and sherry are excellent 



238 THE POOR-DEVIL AUTttOBV 

Stand-by's, and so is Madeira; but claret and Bur- 
gundy may be drank now and then without dis- 
paragement to one's palate ; and Champagne is 
a beverage by no means to be despised." 

Such was the tirade I uttered one day, when 
a little flushed with ale, at a literary club. I 
uttered it, too, with something of a flourish, for 
I thought my simile a clever one. Unluddly, 
my auditors were men who drank beer and hated 
Pope ; so my figure about wines went for no- 
thing, and my critical toleration was looked 
upon as downright heterodoxy. In a word, I 
soon became like a freethinker in religion, an 
outlaw from every sect, and fair game for all. 
Such are the melancholy consequences of not 
hatmg in Uterature. 

I see you are growing weary, so I will be 
brief with the residue of my literary career. I 
will not detain you with a detail of my various 
attempts to get astride of Pegasus; of the 
poems I have written which were never printed, 
the plays I have presented which were never 
performed, and the tracts I have published 



THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 2S9 

which were never purchased. — It seemed as if 
booksellers, managers, and the very public, 
had entered into a conspiracy to starve me. Still 
I could not prevail upon myself to give up the 
trial, nor abandon those dreams of renown in 
which I had indulged. How should I be able 
to look the literary circle of my native village 
in the face if I were so completely to falsify 
their predictions ? For some time longer, there* 
fore, I continued to write for fame, and was, of 
course, the most miserable dog in existence, be- 
sides being in continual risk of starvation. I 
accumulated loads of literary treasure on my 
shelves — loads which were to be treasures to 
posterity ; but, alas ! they put not a penny into 
my purse. What was all this wealth to my 

present necessities? I could not patch my 
elbows with an ode; nor satisfy my hunger 

with blank verse. ^* Shall a man fill his belly 

with the east wind ?" says the proverb. He may 

as well do so as with poetry. 

I have many a time strolled sorrowfully along, 



240 THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 

with a sad heart and an empty stomach, about 
five o'clock, and looked wistfully down the areas 
in the west end of the town, and seen through 
the kitchen-windows the fires gleaming, and the 
joints of meat turning on the spits and dripping 

4 

with gravy, and the cook-maids beating up 
puddings, or trussing turkeys, and felt for the 
moment that if I could but have the run of one 
of those kitchens, Apollo and the Muses might 
• have the hungry heights of Parnassus for me. 
Oh, sir ! talk of meditations among the tombs 
— they are nothing so melancholy as the medita- 
tions of a poor devil without penny in pouch, 
along a line of kitchen-windows towards dinner- 
time. 

At length, when almost reduced to famine and 
despair, the idea all at once entered my head, 
that perhaps I was not so clever a fellow as the 
village and myself had supposed. It was the 
salvation of me. The moment the idea popped 
into my brain it brought conviction and comfort 
with it. I awoke as from a dream — I gave up 



THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 241 

immortal fame to those who could live on air ; 
took to writing for mere bread ; and have ever 
since had a very tolerable life of it. There is 
no man of letters so much at his ease, sir, as he 
who has no character to gain or lose. I had to 
train, myself to it a little, and to clip my wings 
short at first, or they would have carried me up 
into poetry in spite of myself. So I determined 
to begin by the opposite extreme, and abandon- 
ing the higher regions of the craft, I came 
plump down to the lowest, and turned creeper. 
Creeper ! and pray what is that ?" said I. 
Oh, sir, I see you are ignorant of the lan^ 
guage of the craft : a creeper is one who ftir- 
nishes the newspapers with paragraphs at so 
much a line ; one who goes about in quest of 
misfortunes ; attends the Bow-street Office ; the 
Courts of Justice, and every other den of mis- 
chief and iniquity.' We are paid at the rate of 
a penny a line, and as we can s^l the same pa- 
ragraph to almost every paper, we sometimes 
pick up a very decent day's work. Now and 
VOL. r. R 



(( 



(( 



243 THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR, 

then the muse is unkind, or the day uncom- 
monly quiet, and then we rather starve; and 
sometimes the unconscionable editors will clip 
our paragraphs when they are a little too rhe- 
torical, and snip oflf two-pence or three-pence at 
a go. I have many a time had my pot of porter 
snipped oflf of my dinner in this way, and have 
had to dine with dry lips. However, I cannot 
complain. I rose gradually in the lower ranks 
of the craft, and am now, I think, in the most 
comfortable region of literature." 

** And pray," said I, ".what may you be at 
present ?" 

" At present," said he, " I am a regular 
job-writer, and turn my hand to any thing. I 
work up the writings of others at so much a 
sheet; turn off translations; write second-rat6 
articles to fill up reviews and magazines; com- 
pile travels and voyages, and furnish theatrical 
criticisms for the newspapers. All this author- 
ship, you perceive, is anonymous ; it gives me no 
reputation except among the trade ; where I am 



THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 243 

considered an author of all work, and am always 
sure of employ. That 's the only reputation I 
want I sleep soundly, without dread of duns 
or critics, and leave immortal fame to those that 
choose to fret and fight about it. Take my 
word for it, the only happy author in this world 
is he who is below the care of reputation.'' 



R 2 



NOTORIETY. 



When we had emerged from the literary 
nest of honest Dribble, and had passed safely 
through the dangers of Break-neck-stairs, and 
the labyrinths of Fleet-market, Buckthome in- 
dulged in many comments upon the peep into 
literary life which he had furnished me. 

I expressed my surprise at finding it so dif- 
ferent a world from what I had imagined. " It 
is always so," said he, *^ with strangers. The 
land of literature is a fairy land to those who 
view it from a distance, but like all other land- 
scapes, the charm fades on a nearer approach, 
and the thorns and briars become visible. The 
republic of letters is the most factious and dis- 
cordant of all republics, ancient or modem." 

'^ Yet," said I, smiling, " you would not have 
me take honest Dribble's experience as a view 



NOTORIETY. 245 

of the land. He is but a mousing owl ; a mere 
groundling. We should have quite a diflTerent 
strain from one of those fortunate authors whom 
we see importing about the empyreal heights of 
fashion, like swallows in the blue sky of a sum- 
mer's day," 

** Perhaps we might," replied he, ** but I doubt 
it. I doubt whether if any one, even of the 
most successful, were to tell his actual feelings, 
you would not find the truth of friend Dribble's 
philosophy with respect to reputation. One you 
Ivould find carrying a gay face to theworld, while 
some vulture critic was preying upon his very 
liver. Another, who was simple enough to mis- 
take fashion for fame, you would find watching 
countenances, and cultivating invitations, more 
ambitious to figure in the beau monde than the 
world of letters, and apt to be rendered wretched 
by the neglect of an illiterate peer, or a dissi- 
pated duchess. Those who were rising to fame, 
yoii would find tormented with anxiety to get 
higher ; and those who had gained the summit^ 
in constant apprehension of a decline. 



246 NOTORIETY. 

*^ Even those who are indifferent to the bus^ of 
notoriety, and the farce of fashion, are not much 
better off, being incessantly harassed by intru- 
sions on their leisure, and interruptions of their 
pursuits; for, whatever may be his feelings, 
when once an author is launched into notoriety, 
he must go the rounds until the idle curiosity of 
the day is satii^d, and he is thrown aside to 
make Way for some new caprice. Upon the 
whole, I do not know but he is most fortunate 
wlio engages in the whirl through ambition, 
however tormenting ; as it is doubly irksome to 
be obliged to join in the game without being in- 
terested in the stake. 

*' There is a constant demand in the fashion^ 
able world for novelty ; every nine days must 
have its wonder, no matter of what kind. At 
one time it is an author ; at another afire-eater; 
at another a composer, an Indian juggler, or a^ 
Indian chief ;' a man from the North Pole (^ 
the Pyramids: each figures through his brief 
term of notoriety, and then makes way for the 
succeeding wonder. You must know that we 



NOTORIETY. 247 

have oddity fanciers among our ladies of rank, 
who collect about them all kinds of remarkable 
beings : fiddlers, statesmen, singers, warriors, 
artists, philosophers, actors, and poets; every 
kind of personage, in short, who is noted for 
something peculiar: so that their routs are 
like fancy balls, where every one comes * in 
character/ 

^^ I have had infinite amusement at these par- 
ties in noticing how industriously every one was 
playing a part, and acting out of his natural 
line. There is not a more complete game at 
cross purposes than the intercourse of the literary 
and the great. The fine gentleman is always 
anxious to be thought a wit, and the wit a fine 
gentleman. 

" I have noticed a lord endeavouring to look 
wise and to talk learnedly with a man of letters, 
who was aiming at a fashionable air, and the 
tone of a man who had lived about town. The 
peer quoted a score or two of learned authors, with 
whom he would fain be thought intimate, while 
the author talked of Sir John this, and Sir 



248 NOTORIETY. 

Harry that, and extolled the Burgundy he had 
drank at Lord Such-a-one's. — Each seemed to 
forget that he could only be interesting to the 
other in his proper character. Had the peer 
been merely a man of erudition, the author 
would never have listened to his prosing ; and 
had the author known all the nobility in the 
Court Calendar, it would have given him no 
interest in the eyes of the peer. 

^^ In the same way I have seen a fine lady, re« 
markable for beauty, weary a philosopher with 
flimsy metaphysics, while the philosopher put ga 
an awkward air of gallantry, played with her 
faii» and prattled about the Opera. I have heard 
a sentimental poet talk very stupidly with a 
statesman about the national debt ; and on joiuh 
ing a knot of scientific old gentlemen convendng 
in a comer, expecting to hear the discussion of 
some valuable discovery, I found they were only 
amusing themselves with a fat story «" 



A PRACTICAL PHILOSOPHER. 



The anecdotes I had heard of Buckthome's 
early schoolmate, together with a variety of 
peculiarities which I had remarked in himself, 
gave me a strong curiosity to know something of 
his own history. I am a traveller of the good 
old school, and am fond of the custom laid down 
in books, according to which, whenever travel- 
lers met, they sat down forthwith, and gave a 
history of themselves and their adventures. This 
Buckthome, too, was a man much to my taste ; 
he had seen the world, and mingled with so- 
ciety, yet retained the strong eccentricities of 
a man who had lived much alone. There 
was a careless dash of good-humour about him 
which pleased me exceedingly ; ^nd at times an 



250 A PRACTICAL PHILOSOPHER. 

odd tinge of melancholy mingled with his hu- 
mour, and gave it an additional zest. He was 
apt to run into long speculations upon society 
and manners, and to indulge in whimsical views 
of human nature ; yet there was nothing iU- 
tempered in his satire. It ran more upon the 
follies than the vices of mankind ; and even the 
follies of his fellow-man were treated with the 
leniency of one who felt himself to be but frail. 
He had evidently been a little chilled and buffeted 
by fortune, without being soured thereby: at 
some fruits become mellower and more genercfus 
in dieir flavour from having been bruised and 
frostbitten. 

I have always had a great relish for the con- 
versation of practical philosophers of this stamp, 
who have profited by the " sweet uses" of ad- 
versity without imbibing its bitterness; who 
have learnt to estimate the world' rightly, yet 
good-hiunouredly ; and who, while ihey perceive 
the truth of the saying, that " all is vanity," 
are yet able to do so without vexation of spirit 

Such a man was Buckthorne. In general a 



A PRACTICAL PHILOSOPHER. 251 

lai^hing philosopher; and if at any time a 
diade of sadness stole across his brow, it was 
but transient ; like a summer cloud, which soon 
goes by, and freshens and revives the fields 
over which it passes. 

I was walking with him one day in Kensing- 
ton Grardens — for he was a knowing epicure in 
all the cheap pleasures and rural haunts within 
reach of the metropolis. It was a delightful warm 
morning in spring ; and he was in the happy 
mood of a pastoral citizen, when just turned 
loose into grass and sunshine. He had been 
watchmg a lark which, rising from a bed of 
daisies and yellow-cups, had sung his way up to a 
bright «nowy cloud floating in the deep blue sky. 

" Of aU birds," said he, " I should like to be 
a lark. He revels in the brightest time of the 
day, in the happiest season of the year, among 
fresh meadows and opening flowers ; and when 
he has sated himself with the sweetness of earth, 
he wings his flight up to Heaven as if he would 
drink in the melody of the morning stars. Hark 



252 A PRACTICAL PHILOSOPHER. 

to that note! How it comes trilling down 
upon the ear ! What a stream of music, note 
falling over note in delicious cadence! Who 
would trouble his head about operas and con* 
certs when he could walk in the fields and hear 
such music for nothing ? These are the enjoy- 
ments which set riches at scorn, and make even 
a poor man independent : 

I care not. Fortune, what you do deny :— - 
You cannot rob me of free nature's grace ; 

You cannot shut the windows of the sky, 

Through which Aurora shows her bright* ning face ; 
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace 

The woods and lawns by living streams at eve 

^^ Sir, there are homilies in nature's works 
worth all the wisdom of the schools, if we could 
but read them rightly ; and one of the plea- 
santest lessons I ever received in a time of 
trouble, was from hearing the notes of a lark.** 

I profited by this communicative vein to in- 
timate to Buckthome a wish to know some- 
thing of the events of his life, which I fancied 
must have been an eventful one. 



A PEACTICAL PHILOSOPHER. 253 

He smiled when I expressed my desire. ^^ I 
have no great story," said he, " to relate. A 
mere tissue of errors and follies. But, such as 
it is, you shall have one epoch of it, by which 
you may judge of the rest." And so, without 
any further prelude, he gave me the following 
anecdotes of his early adventures. 



BUCKTHORNE ; 



on, 
THE YOUNG MAN OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS. 



I WAS bom to very little property, but to 
great expectations — which is, perhaps, one of the 
most unlucky fortunes that a man can be bom 
to. My father was a coimtry gentleman, the 
last of a very ancient and honourable, but de- 
cayed family, and resided in an old hunting- 
lodge in Warwickshire. He was a keen spotUh 
man, and lived to the extent of his modenrfe 
income, so that I had little to expect from that 
quarter ; but then I had a rich uncle by the 
mqther's side, a penurious, accumulating cur- 
mudgeon, who it was confidently expected would 
make me his heir, because, he was an old ba- 



BUCKTHORNE. 255 

chelor, because I was named after him, and be- 
cause he hated all the world except myself. 

He was, in fact, an inveterate hater, a miser 
even in misanthropy, and hoarded up a grudge 
as he did a guinea. Thus, though my mother 
was an only sister, he had never forgiven her 
marriage with my father, against whom he had 
a cold, still, immoveable pique, which had lain 
at the bottom of his heart, like a stone in a 
well, ever since they had been school-boys to- 
gether. My mother, however, considered me as 
the intermediate being that was to bring every 
thing again into harmony, for she looked upon 
me as a prodigy — God bless her ! my heart over- 
flows whenever I recall her tenderness. She 
was the most excellent, the most indulgent of 
mothers. I was her only child ; it was a pity 
she had no more, for she had fondness of heart 
enough to have spoiled a dozen ! 

I was sent at an early age to a public school^ 
sorely against my mothers wishes; but my 
&ther insisted that it was the only way to mske 



256 BUCKTHORNE. 

boys hardy. The school was kept by a con- 
scientious prig of the ancient system, who did 
his duty by the boys intrusted to his care, that 
is to say, we were flogged soundly when we did 
not get our lessons. We were put into classes, 
and thus flogged on in droves along the high- 
ways of knowledge, in much the same manner 
as cattle are driven to market, where those that 
are heavy in gait, or short in 1^, have to suflfer 
for the superior alertness or longer limbs of their 
companions. 

For my part, I confess it with shame, I was 
an incorrigible laggard. I have always had the 
poetical feeling, that is to say, I have always 
been an idle fellow, and prone to play the vaga- 
bond. I used to get away from my books and 
school whenever I^could, and ramble about the 
fields. I was surrounded by seductions for such 
a temperament. The school-house was an old- 
fashioned whitewashed mansion, of wood and 
plaster, standiAg on the skirts of a beautiful 
village : close by it was the venerable churdb> 



BUCKTHORNE. 257 

with a tall Gothic spire ; before it spread a lovely 
green valley, with a little stream glistening along 
thronglx willow groves ; while a line of blue hills 
that bounded the landscape gave rise to many a 
summer day-dream as to the fairy land that lay 
beyond. 

. In spite of all the scourgings I suffered at 
that school to make me love my book, I cannot 
but look back upon the place with fondness. 
Indeed, I considered this frequent flagellation as 
the common lot of humanity, p-nd the regular 
mode in which scholars were made. 

My kind mother used to lament over my de- 
tails of the sore trials I underwent in the cause 
of learning ; but my father turned a deaf ear to 
her expostulations : he had been flogged through 
school himself, and swore there was no other 
way of making a man of parts ; though, let me 
i^ak it with all due reverence, my father was 
but an indifferent illustration of his theory, for 
he was considered a grievous blockhead. 

My poetical temperament evinced itself at a 
very early period. The village church was at- 

VOL. I. s 



258 BUCKTHORNE. 

tended every Sunday by a neighbouring squire, 
the lord of the manor, whose park stretched quite 
to the village, and whose spacious country-seat 
seemed to take the church imder its protection ; 
indeed, you would have thought the church had 
been consecrated to him instead of to the Deity. 
The parish clerk bowed low before him, and the 
vergers humbled themselves imto the dust fn 
his presence. He always entered a little late, 
and with some stir ; striking his cane emphatically 
on the groimd, swaying his hat in his hand, 
and looking loftily to the right and left as he 
walked slowly up the aisle; and the parson, 
who always ate his Simday dinner with him, 
never commenced service imtil he appeared. He 
sat with his family in a large pew, gorgeously 
lined, humbling himself devoutly on velvet 
cushions, and reading lessons of meekness and 
lowliness of spirit out of splendid gold and mo^ 
rocco prayer books. Whenever the parson spoke 
of the diflSculty of a rich man's entering the 
kingdom of heaven, the eyes of the congregation 
would turn towards the " grand pew," and I 



BUCKTHORNE. 259 

thought the squire seemed pleased with the ap- 
plication. 

The pomp of this pew, and the aristocratical 
air of the family, struck my imagination wonder- 
fidly ; and I fell desperately in love with a little 
daughter of the squire's, about twelve years of 
age. This freak of fancy made me more truant 
from my studies than ever. I used to stroll 
about the squire's park, and would lurk near 
the house, to catch glimpses of this little damsel 
at the windows, or playing about the lawn, or 
walking out with her governess. 

I had not enterprise nor impudence enough to 
venture from my concealment ; indeed I felt like 
an arrant poacher, until I read one or two of 
Ovid's Metamorphoses, When I pictured myself 
as some sylvan deity, and she a coy wood-nymph 
of whom I was in pursuit. There is something 
extremely delicious in these early awakenings of 
the tender passion. I can feel even at this mo- 
ment the thobbing of my boyish bosom when- 
ever by chance I caught a glimpse of her white 
frock fluttering among the shrubbery. I carried 

s 2 



260 BUCKTHORNE. 

about in my bosom a volume of Waller, which 
I had purloined from my mother's library; and 
I applied to my little fair one all the compli- 
ments lavished upon Sacharissa. 

At length I danced with her at a school-balL 
I was so awkward a booby that I dared scarcely 
speak to her: I was filled with awe and em- 
barrassment in her presence ; but I was so in- 
spired, that my poetical temperament for the 
first time broke out in verse, and I fabricated 
some glowing lines, in which I berhymed the 
little lady under the favourite name of Sacharissa. 
I slipped the verses, trembling and blushing, 
into her hand the next Sunday as she came out 
of church. The little prude handed them to her 
mamma ; the manuna handed them to the squire; 
the squire, who had no soul for poetry, sent 
them in dudgeon to the schoolmaster ; and the 
schoolmaster, with a barbarity worthy of the 
dark ages, gave me a soimd and peculiarly hu- 
miliating flogging for thus trespassing upon Par- 
nassus. This was a sad outset for a votary of 
the muse : it ought to have cured me of my 



BUCKTHORNE. 261 

passion for poetry; but it only confirmed it, for 
I felt the spirit of a martyr rising within me. 
What was as well, perhaps, it cured me of my 
passion for the young lady; for I felt so in- 
dignant at the ignominious horsing I had in- 
curred in celebrating her charms, that I could 
not hold up my head in church. Fortunately 
for my wounded sensibility, the Midsummer 
holidays came on, and I returned home. My 
mother, as usual, inquired into all my school 
concerns, my little pleasures, and cares, and 
sorrows ; for boyhood has its share of the one as 
well as of the others. I told her all, and she 
was indignant at the treatmenti had experienced. 
She fired up at the arrogance of the squire, and 
the prudery of the daughter; and as to the 
schoolmaster, she wondered where was the use 
of having schoolmasters, and why boys could not 
remain at home and be educated by tutors, under 
the eye of their mothers. She asked to see the 
verses I had written, and she was delighted wiA 
them ; for to confess the truth, she had a pretty 
taste in poetry. She even showed them to the 



262 BUCKTHORNE. 

parson's wife, who protested they were charm- 
ing ; and the parson's three daughters insisted 
on each having a copy of them. 

All this was exceedingly balsamic, and I was 
still more consoled and encouraged, when the 
young ladies, who were the blue stockings of the 
neighbourhood, and had read Dr. Johnson's Lives 
quite through, assured my mother that great 
geniuses never studied, but were always idle ; 
upon which I began to surmise that I was my- 
self something, out of the common run. My 
father, however, was of a very different opinion ; 
for when my mother, in the pride of her heart, 
showed him my copy of verses, he threw them 
out of the window, asking her ^^ if she meant 
to make a ballad-monger of the boy." But he 
was a careless, common.thiiiking man, and I 
cannot say that I ever loved him much ; my 
mother absorbed all my filial affection. 

I used occasionally, during holidays, to be 
sent on short visits to the unde, who was to 
make me his heir ; they thought it would keep 
me in his mind, and render him fond of me. He 



UUCKTHOKNE. 263 

was a withered, anxious-looking old fellow, and 
lived in a desolate old country seat, which he 
suffered to go to ruin from absolute niggardliness. 
He kept but one man-servant, who had lived, or 
rather starved, with him for years. No woman 
was allowed to sleep in the house. A daughter 
of the old servant lived by the gate, in what had 
been a porter's lodge, and was permitted to come 
into the house about an hour each day, to make 
the beds, and cook a morsel of provisions. The 
park that surrounded the house was all run wild ; 
the trees grown out of shape; the fish-ponds 
stagnant ; the urns and statues fallen from their 
pedestals, and buried among the rank grass. The 
hares and pheasants were so little molested, ex- 
cept by poachers, that they bred in great abun- 
dance, and sported about the rough lawns and 
weedy avenues. To guard the premises and 
frighten off robbers, of which he was somewhat 
apprehensive, and visitors, whom he had in 
almost equal awe, my imcle kept two or three 
blood-hounds, who were always prowling round 



S64 BUCKTHORNE. 

the house, and were the dread of the neighbour- 
ing peasantry. They were gaunt and half 
starved, seemed ready to devour one from mere 
hunger, and were an effectual check on any 
stranger's approach to this wizard castle. 

Such was my uncle's house, which I used to 
visit now and then during the holidays. I was, 
as I before said, the old man's favourite ; that is 
to say, he did not hate me so much as he did the 
rest of the world. I had been apprised of his cha^ 
racter, and cautioned to cultivate his good will ; 
but I was too young and careless to be a courtier, 
and, indeed, have never been sufficiently studious 
of my interests to let them govern my feelings. 
However, we jogged on very well together, and 
as my visits cost him almost nothing, they did 
not seem to be very unwelcome. I brought 
with me my fishing-rod, and half supplied the 
table from the fish-ponds. 

Our meals were solitary and unsocial. My 
uncle rarely spoke ; he pointed for whatever he 
panted, and the servant perfectly understood 



BUCKTHORNE. 365 

him. Indeed, his man John, or Iron John, as 
he was called in the neighbourhood, was a coun- 
terpart of his master. He was a tall, bony old 
fellow, with a dry wig, that seemed made of 
cow's tail, and a face as tough as though it had 
been made of cow's hide. He was generally 
clad in a long, patched livery coat, taken out of 
the wardrobe of the house, and which bagged 
loosely about him, having evidently belonged to 
some corpulent predecessor in the more plen- 
teous days of the mansion. From long habits of 
taciturnity the hinges of his jaws seemed to have 
grown absolutely rusty, and it cost him as much 
effort to set them ajar, and to let out a tolerable 
sentence, as it would have done to set open the 
iron gates of the park, and let out the old family 
carriage that was dropping to pieces in the 
coach-house. 

I cannot say, however, but that I was for some 
time amused with my uncle's peculiarities. Even 
the very desolateness of the establishment had 
something in it that hit my fancy. When the 
weather was fine, I used to amuse myself in a 



266 BUCKTHORNE. 

solitary way, by rambling about the park, and 
coursing like a colt across its lawns« The hares 
and pheasants seemed to stare with surprise to 
see a human being walking these forbidden 
grounds by daylight. Sometimes I amused 
myself by jerking stones, or shooting at birds 
with a bow and arrows, for to have used a gun 
would have been treason. Now and then my 
path was crossed by a little red-headed, ragged* 
tailed urchin, the son of the woman at the lodge, 
who ran wild about the premises. I tried to 
draw him into familiarity, and to make a com- 
panion of him ; but he seemed to have imbibed 
the strange unsocial character of every tl^ng 
around him, and always kept aloof; so I consi- 
dered him as another Orson, and amused myself 
with shooting at him with my bow and arrows, 
and he would hold up his breeches with one 
hand, and scamper away like a deer. 

There was something in all this loneliness 
and wildness strangely pleasing to me. The 
great stables, empty and weather-broken, with 
the names of favourite horses over the vacant 



BUCKTHORNE. 367 

stalls; the windows bricked and boarded up; 
the broken roofs, garrisoned by rooks and jack-* 
daws, all had a singularly forlorn appearance : 
one would have concluded the house to be totally 
uninhabited, were it not for a little thread of 
blue smoke, which now and then curled up like 
a corkscrew from the centre of one of the wide 
chimneys, where my uncle's starveling meal was 
cooking. 

, My uncle's room was in a remote comer 
of the building, strongly secured, and generally 
locked. I was never admitted into this strong 
hold, where the old man would remain for the 
greater part of the time, drawn up like a veteran 
ispider, in the citadel of his web. The rest of 
the mansion, however, was open to me, and I 
wandered about it unconstrained. The damp 
and rain which beat in through the broken win- 
dows crumbled the paper from the walls, moul- 
dered the pictures, and gradually destroyed the 
furniture. I loved to roam about the wide waste 
chambers in bad weather, and listen to the howU 
ing of the wind, and the banging about of the 



268 BUCKTHORNE. 

doors and window-shutters. I pleased myself 
with the idea how completely, when I came to 
the estate, I would renovate all things, and make 
the old building ring with merriment, till it was 
astonished at its own jocundity. 

The chamber which I occupied on these visits 
was the same that had been my mother's when 
a girl. There was still the toilet-table of her 
own adorning, the landscapes of her own draw- 
ing. She had never seen it since her marriage, 
but would often ask me if every thing was still 
the same. All was just the same, for I loved 
that chamber on her account, and had taken 
pains to put every thing in order, and to mend 
all the flaws in the windows with my own hands. 
I anticipated the time when I should once more 
welcome her to the house of her fathers, and 
restore her to this little nestling place of her 
childhood. 

At length my evil geniu^^ or what, perhaps, 
is the same thing, the Muse, inspired me with 
the notion of rhjrming again. My uncle, who 
never went to church, used on Sundays to read 



BUCKTHORNE. 269 

chapters out of the Bible ; and Iron John, the 
woman from the lodge, and myself, were his 
congregation. It seemed to be all one to him 
what he read, so long as it was something from 
the Bible : sometimes, therefore, it would be the 
Song of Solomon, and this withered anatomy 
would read about being " stayed with flagons, 
and comforted with apples, for he was sick of 
love." Sometimes he would hobble, with spec- 
tacles on nose, through whole chapters of hard 
Hebrew names in Deuteronomy, at which the 
poor woman would sigh and groan as if won- 
derfiilly moved. His favourite book, however, 
was " The Pilgrim's Progress ;" and when he 
came to that part which treats of Doubting 
Castle and Giant Despair, I thought invariably 
of him and his desolate old country seat. So 
much did the idea amuse me, that I took to 
scribbling about it under the trees in the park, 
and in a few days had made some progress in a 
poem, in which I had given a description of the 
place, under the name of Doubting Castle, and 
personified my uncle as Giant Despair. 



270 BUCKTHORNE. 

I lost my poem somewhere about the house, 
and I soon suspected that my uncle had found 
it, as he harshly intimated to me that I could 
return home, and that I need not come and see 
him again till he should send for me. 

Just about this time my mother died. — I can- 
not dwell upon the circumstance. My heart, 
careless and wayward as it is, gushes with the 
recollection. Her death was an event that per- 
haps gave a turn to all my after fortunes. With 
her died all that made home attractive. I had 
no longer any body whom I was ambitious to 
please, or fearful to offend. My father was a 
good kind of man in his way, but he had 
bad maxims in education, and we differed on 
material points. It makes a vast difference in 
opinion about the utility of the rod, which end 
happens to fall to one's share. I never could be 
brought into my father's way of thinking on the 
subject. 

I now, therefore, began to grow very impatient 
of remaining at school, to be flogged for things 
that I did not like. I longed for variety, espe- 



BUCKTHORNE. 271 

cially now that I had not my uncle's to resort 
to, by way of diversifying the dulness of school, 
with the dreariness of his country seat. 

I was now almost seventeen, tall for my age, 
and full of idle fancies. I had a roving, inex- 
tinguishable desire to see different kinds of life, 
and different orders of society ; and this vagrant 
humour had been fostered in me by Tom Dribble, 
the prime wag and great genius of the school, 
who had all the rambling propensities of a poet. 

I used to sit at my desk in the school, on a 
fine summer's day, and instead of studying the 
book which lay open before me, my eye was 
gazing through the window on the green fields 
and blue hills. How I envied the hs^py groups 
seated on the tops of stage-coaches, chatting, 
and joking, and laughing, as they were whirled 
by Ihe school-house on their way to the metro- 
polis. Even the waggoners, trudging along be- 
side their ponderous teams, and traversing the 
kingdom from one end to the other, were objects 
of envy to me: I fancied to myself what ad- 
ventures they must experience, and what odd 



272 BUCKTHORNE. 

scenes of life they must witness. All this was, 
doubtless, the poetical temperament working 
within me, and tempting me forth into a world 
of its own creation, which I mistook for the 
world of real life. 

While my mother lived, this strong propensity 
to rove was counteracted by the stronger attrac- 
tions of home, and by the powerful ties of af- 
fection which drew me to her side; but now 
that she was gone, the attractions had ceased ; 
the ties were severed. I had no longer an an- 
chorage-ground for my heart, but was at the 
mercy of every vagrant impulse. Nothing but 
the narrow allowance on which my father kept 
me, and the consequent penury of my purse, 
prevented me from mounting the top of a stage- 
coach, and launching myself adrift on the great 
ocean of life. 

Just about this time the village was agitated, 
for a day or two, by the passing through of se- 
veral caravans, containing wild beasts, and other 
spectacles, for a great fair annually held at a 
neighbouring town. 



BUCKTHORNE. 273 

I had never seen a fair of any consequence, and 
my curiosity was powerfully awakened by this 
bustle of preparation. I gazed with respect a-nd 
wonder at the vagrant personages who accom- 
panied these caravans. I loitered about the 
village inn, listening with curiosity and delight 
to the slang talk and cant jokes of the showmen 
and their followers ; and I felt an eager desire 
to witness this fair, which my fancy decked out 
as something wonderfiilly fine.- 

A holiday afternoon presented, when I could 
be absent from noon until evening. A waggon 
was going from the village to the fair : I could 
not resist the temptation, nor the eloquence of 
Tom Dribble, who was a truant to the very 
heart's core. We hired seats, and set off full of 
boyish expectation. I promised myself that I 
would but take a peep at the land of promise, 
and hasten back again before my absence should 
be noticed. 

Heavens ! how happy I was oii arriving at the 
fair ! How I was enchanted with the world of 
fim and pageantry around me ! The humours 

VOL. I. T 



274 BUCKTHORNE. 

of Punch, the feats of the equestrians, the ma- 
gical tricks of the conjurors ! But what prin- 
cipally caught ray attention was an itinerant 
theatre, where a tragedy, pantomime, and farce, 
were all acted in the course of half an hour; 
and more of the dramatis persons^ murdered 
than at either Drury Lane or Covent Grarden 
in the course of a whole evening. I have since 
seen many a play performed by the best actors 
in the w<»:ld, but' never have I derived half the 
delight from any that I did from this first re- 
presentation. 

There was a ferocious tyrant in a skull-cap 
like an inverted porringer, and a dress of 
red baize, magnificently embroidered with gilt 
leather ; with his face so bewhiskered, and his 
eye-brows so knit and expanded with burnt cork, 
that he made my heart quake within me as 
he. stamped about the little stage. I was en« 
raptured, too, with the surpassing beauty of a 
distressed damsel in faded pink silk, and dirty 
white muslin, whom he held in cruel captivity 
by way of gaining her affections, and who weptj 



BUCKTHORNE. 275 

and wrung her hands, and flourished a ragged 
white handkerchief from the top of an im- 
pregnable tower of the size of a bandbox. 

Even after I had come out from the play, I could 
not tear myself from the vicinity of the theatre, 
but lingered, gazing and wondering, and laugh- 
ing at the dramatis personae as they performed 
their antics, or danced upon a stage in front of 
the booth, to decoy a new set of spectators. 

I was so bewildered by the scene, and so lost 
iQ the crowd of seAsations that kept swarming 
upon me, that I was like one entranced. I lost 
my companion, Tom Dribble, in a tumult and 
scuffle that took place near one of the shows ; 
but I was too much occupied in mind to think 
long about him. I strolled about until dark, 
when the fair was lighted up, and a new scene 
of magic opened upon me. The illumination of 
the tents and booths, the brilliant effect of the 
stages decorated with lamps, with dramatic 
groups flaunting about them in gaudy dresses, 
contrasted splendidly with the surrounding dark** 
ness; while the uproar of drums, trumpets, 

T 2 



276 BUCKTHORNE. 

fiddles, hautboys, and cymbals, mingled with the 
harangues of the showmen, the squeaking of 
Punch, and the shouts and laughter of the crowd, 
all united to complete my giddy distraction. 

Time flew without my perceiving it. When 
I came to myself and thought of the school, I 
hastened to return. I inquired for the waggon 
in which I had come : it had been gone for 
hours ! I asked the time : it was alniost mid- 
night! A sudden quaking seized me. How 
was I to get back to school ? I was too weary 
to make the journey on foot, and I knew not 
where to apply for a conveyance. Even if 
I should find one, could I venture to disturb 
the school-house long after midnight — ^to arouse 
that sleeping lion the usher in the very midst of 
his night's rest? — the idea was too dreadful 
for a delinquent school-boy. All the horrors of 
return rushed upon me. My abs^ce niust long 
before this have been remarked, — and absent 
for a whole night! — a deed of darkness not 
easily to' be expiated. The rod of the pedagogue 
budded forth into tenfold terrors before my 



BUCKTHORNE. 277 

affrighted fancy. I pictured to myself piinish- 
ment and humiliation in every variety of form, 
and my heart sickened at the picture. Alas! 
how often are the petty ills of boyhood as painful 
to our tender natures, as are the sterner evils of 
manhood to our robuster minds. 

I wandered about among the booths, and I 
might have derived a lesson from my actual 
feelings, how much the charms of this world 
depend upon ourselves; for I no longer saw 
any thing gay or delightful in the revelry around 
me. At length I lay down, wearied and per- 
plexed, behind one of the large tents, and, cover- 
ing myself with the margin of the tent cloth, 
to keep off the night chill, I soon fell asleep. 

I had not slept long, when I was awakened 
by the noise of merriment within anvadjoining 
booth. It was the itinerant theatre, rudely con- 
structed of boards and canvas. I peeped through 
an aperture, and saw the whole dramatis per- 
sonae, tragedy, comedy, and pantomime, all re- 
freshing themselves after the final dismissal of 
their auditors. They were merry and game- 



378 BUCKTHORNE. 

some, and made the flimsy theatre ring with 
their laughter. I was astonished to see the 
tragedy tyrant in red baize and fierce whiskers, 
who had made my heart quake as he strutted 
about the boards, now transformed into a fat, 
good-humoured fellow; the beaming porringer 
laid aside from his brow, and his jolly face 
washed from all the terrors of burnt cork. I was 
delighted, too, to see the distressed damsel, in 
faded silk and dirty muslin, who had trembled 
under his tyranny, and afflicted me so much by 
her sorrows, now seated familiarly on his knee, 
and quaffing from the same tankard. Harlequin 
lay asleep on one of the- benches ; and monks, 
satyrs, and vestal virgins, were grouped to- 
gether, laughing outrageously at a broad story 
told by an unhappy count, who had been bar- 
barously murdered in the tragedy. 

This was, indeed, novelty to me. It was a 
peep into another planet. I gazed and listened 
with intense curiosity and enjoyment. They 
had a thousand odd stories and jokes about the 
events of the day, and burlesque descriptions and 



BUCKTHOHNE. 279 

iriimickings of the spdCtatots, who had been adt 
miring them. Their conversation was full of 
allusions to their adventures at different places 
where they had exhibited ; the characters they 
had met with in different vill^es ; and the Iti-^ 
diorous difficulties in which they had occasionally 
been involved. All past cares and troubles were 
now turned, by these thoughtless beings, into 
matter of merriment, and made to contribute 
to the gaiety of the moment. They had been 
moving from fair to fair about the kingdom, and 
were the next morning to set out on their way 
to London. My resolution was taken. I stole 
from my nest ; and crept through a hedge into 
a neighbouring field, where I went to work to 
make a tatterdemallion of myself. I tore my 
clothes; soiled them with dirt; begrimed my 
fftce and hands, and, crawling near one of the 
booths, purloined an old hat, and left my new 
one in its place. It was an honest theft, and, I 
hope, may not hereafter rise ui> (n judgment 
against me. 

1 9ow ventured to the scene of merry-making, 



280 BUCKTHOllNE. 

and presenting myself before the dramatic corps, 
offered myself as a volunteer. I felt terribly 
agitated and abashed, for never before had I 
stood " in such presence." I had addressed my- 
self to the manager of the company. He was a 
fat man, dressed in dirty white, with a red sash 
fringed with tinsel swathed round his body ; his 
face was smeared with paint, and a majestic 
plume towered from an old spangled black bon- 
net. He was the Jupiter Tonans of this Olympus, 
and was surrounded by the inferior gods and 
goddesses of his court. He sat on the end of a 
bench, by a table, with one arm akimbo, and the 
other extended to the handle of a tankard, which 
he had slowly set down from his Ups as he sur- 
veyed me from head to foot. It was a moment 
of awful scrutiny; and I fancied the groups 
aroUnd all watching as in silent suspense, and 
waiting for the imperial nod. 

He questioned me as to who I wajs; what 
were my qualifications ; and what terms I ex- 
pected. I passed myself off for a discharged 
servant from a gentleman's family ; and as, hap 



BUCKTHORNE. 281 

pily, one does not require a special recommenda- 
tion to get admitted into bad company, the 
questions on that head were easily satisfied. As 
to my accomplishments, I could spout a little 
poetry, and knew several scenes of plays, which 
I had learnt at school exhibitions. I could 
dance that was enough ; no further ques- 
tions were asked me as to accomplishments ; it 
was the vely thing they wanted ; and as 1 asked 
no wages, but merely meat and drink, and safe 
conduct about the world, a bargain was struck 
in a moment. 

Behold me, therefore, transformed on a sudden 
from a gentleman student to a dancing buffoon ; 
for such, in fact, was the character in which I 
made my debut. I was one of those who formed 
the groups in the dramas, and was principally 
employed on the stage in front of the booth to 
attract company. I was equipped as a satyr, in 
a dress of drab frieze that fitted to my shape, 
with a great laughing mask, ornamented with 
huge ears and short horns. I was pleased with 
the disguise, because it kept me from the danger 



282 BUCKTHORNE. 

of being discovered, whilst we were in that part 
of the country ; and as I had merely to dance 
and make antics, the character was favourable 
to a debutant — being almost on a par with 
Simon Snug's part of the lion, whidh required 
nothing but roaring. 

I cannot tell you how happy I was at this 
sudden change in my situation. I felt no de- 
gradation, for I had seen too littleof society to 
be thoughtful about the difference of rank ; and 
a boy of sixteen is seldom aristocraticaL I had 
given up no friend, for there seemed to be no 
one in the world that cared for me now my poor 
mother was dead ; I had given up no pleasure,, 
for my pleasure was to ramble about and in- 
dulge the flow of a poetical imagination, and I 
now enjoyed it in perfection. There is no life so 
truly poetical as that of a dancing buffoon. 

It may be said that all this argued groveling 
inclinations. I do not think so. Not that I 
mean to vindicate myself in any great degree : 
I know too well what a whimsical compound I 
am. But in -this instance I was seduced by no 



I 



BUCKTHOUNE. 283 

love of low company, nor disposition to indulge 
in low vices. I have always despised the brutally 
vulgar, and I have always had a disgust at vice, 
whether in high or low life. I was governed 
merely by a sudden and thoughtless impulse. I 
had no idea of resorting to this profession as 
a mode of life, or of attaching myself to these 
people, as my future class of society. I thought 
merely of a temporary gratification to my curio- 
sity, and an indulgence of my humours. I had 
already a strong relish for the peculiarities of 
character and the varieties of situation, and I 
have always been fond of the comedy of life, 
and desirous of seeing it through all its shifting 
scenes. 

In mingling, therefore, among mountebanks 
and bujSfoons, I was protected by the very vivacity 
of imagination which had led me among them. 
I moved about, enveloped, as it were» in a pro- 
tecting delusion, which my fancy spread around 
me. I assimilated to these people only as they 
struck me poetically ; their whimsical ways and 



284 BUCKTHORNE. 

a certain picturesqueness in their, mode of life 
entertained: me ; but I was neither amused 
nor corrupted by their vices. In lE^ort, I niin- 
gled among them, as Prince Hal did among 
his graceless associates, merely to gratify my 
humour. 

I did not investigate my motives in this 
manner, at the time, for I was toa careless and 
thoughtless to reason about the matter ; but I 
do so now, when I look back with trembling to 
think of the ordeal to which I unthinkingly ex- 
posed myself, md the manner in which I passed 
through it. Nothing, I am convinced, but the 
poetical temperament that hurried me into the 
scrape, brought me out of it without my be- 
coming an arrant vagabond. 
- Full of the enjoyment of the moment, giddy 
with the wildness of animal spirits, so rapturqus 
in a boy, I capered, I danced, I played a thou- 
sand fantastic tricks about the stage, in the vil- 
lages in which we exhibited; and I was uni- 
versally pronounced the most agreeable qionster 



BUCKTHORNE. 385 

that had ever been seen in those parts. My 
disappearance from school had' awakened my 
father's anxiety ; for I one day heard a descripr 
tion of myself cried before the very booth in 
which I was exhibiting, with the offer of a re- 
ward for any intelligence of me. I had no great 
scruple about letting my father suffer a little 
uneasiness on my account ; it would punish him 
for past indifference, and would make him value 
me the more when he found me again. 

I havie wondered that some of my comrades 
did not recognise me in the stray sheep that 
was cried ; but they were all, no doubt, occupied 
by their own concerns. They were all labouring 
seriously in their antic vocation ; for folly was a 
mere trade with most of them, and they often 
grinned and capered with heavy hearts. With 
me, on the contrary, it was all reaL I acted 
con amorCi and rattled and laughed from the 
irrepressible gaiety of my spirits. It is true 
that, now and then, I started and looked grave 
on receiving a sudden thwack from the wooden 
sword of Harlequin in the course of my gambols. 



286 BUCKTHORNE. 

as it brought to mind the birch of my schod- 
master. But I soon got accustomed to it, and 
bore all the cuffing, and kicking, and tmnbling 
about, which form the practical wit of your iti- 
nerant pantomime, with a good humour that 
made me a prodigious favourite. 

The country campaign of the troop was soon 
at an end, and we set off for the metropolis, 
to perform at the fairs which are held in its 
vicinity. The greater part of our theatrical pro- 
perty was sent on direct, to be in a state of pre- 
paration for the opening of the fairs ; while a 
detachment of the company travelled slowly 
on, foraging among the villages. I was amused 
with the desultory, haphazard kind of life we 
led; here to-day and gone to-morrow. Some- 
times reveling in ale-houses, sometimes feast- 
ing under hedges in the green fields. When 
audiences were crowded, and business profitable, 
we fared well; and when otherwise, we fared 
scantily, consoled ourselves, and made up with 
anticipations of the next day's success. 

At length the increasing frequency of coaches 



BUCKTHORNE. 287 

hurrying past us, covered with passengers ; the 
increasing number of carriages, carts, waggons, 
gigs, droves of cattle and flocks of sheep, all 
thronging the road; the snug country boxes 
with trim flower-gardens, twelve feet square, and 
their trees twelve feet high, all powdered with 
dust ; and the innumerable seminaries for young 
ladies and gentlemen situated along the road 
for the benefit of country air and rural retire- 
ment; all these insignia announced that the 
mighty London was at hand. The hiirry, and 
the crowd, and the bustle, and the noise, and 
the dust^ increased as we proceeded, until I 
saw the great cloud of smoke hanging in the air, 
like a canopy of state, over this queen of cities. 

In this way, then, did I enter the metropolis ; 
a strolling vagabond ; on the top of a caravan, 
with a crew of vagabonds about me ; but I was 
as happy as a prince ; for, like Prince Hal, I 
felt myself superior to my situation, and knew 
that I could at any time cast it off, and emerge 
into my proper sphere. 

How my eyes sparkled as we passed Hyde 



288 BUCKTHORNE. 

Park-comer, and I saw splendid equipages roll* 
ing by with powdered footmen behind, in ridi 
liveries, with fine nosegays, and gold-headed 
canes ; and with lovely women within, so simip- 
tuously dressed, and so surpassingly fair ! I was 
always extremely sensible to female beauty ; and 
here I saw it in all its power of fascination ; for 
whatever may be said of " beauty unadorned,'* 
there is something almost awfid in female love^ 
liness decked out in jewelled state. The swan- 
like neck encircled with diamonds ; the raven 
locks clustered with pearls j the ruby glowii^ 
on the snowy bosom, are objects which I could 
never contemplate without emotion ; and a daz- 
zling white arm clasped with bracelets, and taper, 
transparent fingers laden with sparkling rings, 
are to me irresistible. 

My very eyes ached as I gazed at the high 
and courtly beauty that passed before me. It 
surpassed all that my imagination had con- 
ceived of the sex. I shnmk, for a moment, into 
shame at the company in which I was placed, 
and repined at the vast distance that seemed to 



BUCKTHORNE. 289 

intervene between me and these magnificent 
beings. 

I forbear to give a detail of the happy life I 
led about the skirts of the metropolis, playing 
at the various fairs held there during the latter 
part of spring and the beginning of summer. 
This continued change from place to place, and 
scene to ^cene, fed my imagination with novel- 
ties, and kept my spirits in a perpetual state of 
excitement. As I was tall of my age, I aspired, 
at one time, to play heroes in tragedy ; but after 
two or three trials, I was pronounced by ^e 
manager totally unfit for the line ; and our first 
tragic actress, who was a large woman, and held 
a small hero in abhorrence, confirmed his de- 
^ dsion. 

The fact is, I had attempted to give point to 
language which had no point, and nature to 
scenes which had no nature. They said I did 
not fill out my characters ; and they were right. 
The characters had all been prepared for a dif- 
ferent sort of man. Our tragedy hero was a 
round, robustious fellow, with an amazing voice ; 

VOL. I. u 



«" 



-V 



290 BUCKTHORNE. 

who Stamped and slapped his breast until his 
wig shook again ; and who roared and bellowed 
out his bombast until every phrase swelled upon 
the ear like the sound of a kettle-drum. I 
might as well have attempted to fill out his 
clothes as his characters. When we had a dia- 
logue together, I was nothing before him, with 
my slender voice and discriminating manner. I 
might as well have attempted to parry a cudgel 
with a small sword. If he found me in any way 
gaining ground upon him, he would take refuge 
in nis mighty voice, and throw his tones like 
peals of thunder at me, until they were drowned 
in the still louder thunders of applause from the 
audience. 

To tell the truth, I suspect that I was not 
shown fair play, and that there was management 
at the bottom ; for without vanity I think I was 
a better actor than he. As I had not embarked 
in the vagabond line through ambition, I did not 
repine at lack of preferment ; but I was grieved 
to find that a vagrant life was not without its 
cares and anxieties, and that jealoUiSiies, intrigues. 



BUCKTHORNE. 891 

and mad ambition, were to be found even amcmg 
vagabonds. 

Indeed, as I became more familiar with my 
situation, and the delusions of fancy gradually 
faded away, I b^an to find that my associates 
were not the happy, careless creatures I had at 
first imagined them. They were jealous of each 
other's talents ; they quarrelled about parts, the 
same as the actors on the grand theatres ; they 
quarrelled about dresses ; and there was one robe 
of yellow silk, trimmed with red, and a head- 
dress of three rumpled ostrich feathers, which 

were continually setting the ladies of the com- 
pany by the ears. Even those who had attained 
the highest honours were not more happy than 
the rest ; for Mr. Flimsey himself, our first tra- 
gedian, and apparently a jovial, good-humoured 
fellow, confessed to me one day, in the fulness 
of his heart, that he was a miserable man. He 
had a brother-in-law, a relative by marriage 
though not by blood, who was manager of a 
theatre in a small country town. And this 
same brother ( '' a little more than kin but less 

u 2 



^92 BUCKTHORNE. 

than kind*') looked down upon him, and treated 
him with contumely, because, forsooth, he was 
but a scrolling playen I tried to console him 
with the thoughts of the vast applause he daily 
received, but it was all in vain. He declared 
that it gave him no delight, and that he should 
never be a happy man until the name of 
Flimsey rivaled the name of Crimp. 

How little do those before the scenes know of 
what passes behind ! how little can they judge, 
firom the countenances of actors, of what is 
passing in their hearts ! I have known two 
lovers quarrel like cats behind the scenes, who 
were, the moment after, to fly into each other's 
embraces. And I have dreaded, when our Bel- 
videra was to take her ifarewell kisis of her 
Jaffier, lest she should bite a piece out of his 
cheek. Our tragedian was a rough joker oflF the 
stage ; our prime clown the most peevish mortal 
living. The latter used to go about snapping 
and snarling, with a broad laugh painted on his 
countenance ; and I can assure you, that what- 
ever may be said of the gravity of a monkey, 



BUCKTHOBNE. 293 

or the melancholy of a gibed cat, there is no 
more melancholy creature in existence than a 
mountebank off duty. 

The only thing in which all parties agreed, 
was to badcbite the manager, and cabal against 
his regulations. This, however, I have since dis- 
covered to be a common trait of human nattire, 
and to take place in all communities. It would 
seem to be the main business of man to repine 
at government. In all sitiiations of life into 
which I have looked, I have found mankind di- 
vided into two grand parties ; those who ride, 
and those who are ridden. The great struggle 
of life seems to be which shall keep in the sad- 
dle. This, it appears to me, is the fundamental 
principle of politics, whether in great or little 
life. — However, I do not mean to moralize — but 
one cannot always sink the philosopher. 

Well then, to return to myself, it was deter- 
mined, as I said, that I was not fit for tragedy, 
and, unluckily, as my study was bad, having a 
very poor memory, I was pronounced unfit for 
comedy also ; besides, the line of young gentle- 



\ 
\ 



$94 BUCKTHORNE. 

men was already engrossed by an actor with' 
whom I could not pretend to enter into compe- 
tition, he haying filled it for almost half a cen- 
tury. I came down again, therefore, to panto- 
mime. In consequence, howeVer, of the gddd 
offices of the manager's lady, who had taken a 
liking to me, I was promoted from th6 part of 
the satyr to that of the lover ; and with my face 
patched and painted, a huge cravat of paper, 
a steeple-crowned hat, and dangling long-skirted 
sky-blue coat, was metamorphosed into the lover 
of columbine. My part did not call for mu<^ 
of the tender and sentimental. I had merely to 
pursue the fugitive fair one; to have a door 
now and then slammed in my face ; to run Sijjf^ 
head occasionally against a post ; to tumble and 
roll about with pantaloon and the clown ; and 
to endure the hearty thwacks of harlequin's 
wooden sword. 

As ill-luck would have it, my poetical tern- 
perament began to ferment within me, and to 
work out new troubles. The inflammatory air 
of a great metropolis, added to the rural scenes 



BUCKTHORNE. 295 

in which the fairs were held, such as Greenwidh 
Park, Epping Forest, and the lovely valley of 
West End, had a powerful effect upon me. 
While in Greenwidh Park, I was witness to the 
old holiday games of running down hill, and 
kissing in the ring ; and then the firmament of 
blooming faces and blue eyes Uiat would be 
turned towards me, as I was playing antics on 
the stage; all these set my young blood and 
my poetical vein in fiill flow. In short, I played 
the character to the life, and became desperately 
enamoured of columbine. She was a trim, 
well-made, tempting girl, with a roguish dim- 
plii^ face, and fine chestnut hair clustering all 
about it. The moment I got fairly smitten there 
was an end to all playing. I was such a crea- 
ture of fancy and feeling, that I could not put 
on a pretended, when I was powerfully affected 
by a real emotion. I could not sport with a 
fiction that came so near to the fact. I became 
too natural in my acting to succeed. And then, 
what a situation for a lover! I was a mere 



296 BUCKTHOKNE. 

stripUng, and she played with my passion ; for 
girls soon grow more adroit aiul knowiBg in these 
matters than your awkward youngsters. What 
agonies had I to suffer ! Every time that she 
danced in front of the booth, and made such 

liberal displays of her charms, I was in tormeiit. 

« 

To complete my misery, I had a real rival in 
harlequin, an active^ vigorous, knowing varlet 
of six and twenty. What had a raw, inexpe- 
rienced youngster like me to hope from such a 
competition? 

I had still, however, some advantages in my 
favour. In spite of my change of life, I retained 
that indescribable something which always di- 
stinguishes the gentleman; that something which 
dwells in a man's air and deportment, and not 
in his clothes ; and which it is as difficidt frar a 
gentleman to put off, as for a vulgar fellow to 
put on. The company generally felt it, and 
used to call me Little Grentleman Jack, The girl 
felt it too, and, in spite of her predilection for 
my powerful rival, she liked to flirt with me. 



BUCKTHOllNE. 297 

This only aggravated my troubles by increasing 
my passion, and awakening the jealousy, of her 
party-cdoured lover. 

Alas ! think what I suffered at being obliged 
to keep up an ineffectual chase after my colum- 
blue through whole pantomimes; to see. her 
carried off in the vigorous arms of the happy 
harlequin ; and to be obliged, instead of snatch* 
ing her from him, to tumble sprawling with 
pantaloon and the clown ; and bear the infernal 
and degrading thwacks of my rival's weapon of 
lath, which, may Heaven confound him ! (excuse 
my passion) the villain laid on with a malicious 
good-will; nay, I could absolutely hear him 
chuckle and laugh beneath his accursed mask — 
I beg pardon for growing a little warm in my 
narrative— I wish to be cool, but these recol- 
lections will sometimes agitate me. I have 
heard and read of many desperate and deplorable 
situations of lovers, but none, I think, in which 
true love was ever exposed to so severe and pe- 
culiar a trial. 

This could not last long : flesh and blood, at 



398 BUCKTHOHNK. 

least Buch iBesh and blood as mine, could not 
bear it. I had repeated heart-burnings and 
quarrels with my rival, in which he treated me 
with the mortifying forbearance of a man towards 
a child. Had he quarrelled outright with me, I 
could have stomached it, at least I should have 
known what part to take ; but to be humoured 
and treated as a child in the presence of my 
mistress, when I felt all the bantam spirit of a 
little man swelling within me — Gods! it was 
insufferable ! 

At length, we were exhibiting one day at West 
End fair, which was at that time a very fashion- 
able resort, and often beleaguered with gay equi- 
pages from town. Among the spectators that 
filled the front row of our little canvas theatre 
one afternoon, when I had to figure in a panto- 
mime, were a number of yoimg ladies from a 
boarding-school, with their governess. Guess 
my confusion when, in the midst of my antics, 
I beheld amoilg the number my quondam flame ; 
her whom I had berhymed at school, her for 
whose charms I had smarted so severely, the 



BUCKTHORNE. 299 

crael l^hftrissa! What was worse, I fancied 
i^he reeoUected me, and was repeating the story 
of my humiliating flagellation, for I saw her 
whispering to her companions and her governess. 
I lost all consciousness of the part I was acting, 
and of the place where I was. I felt shrunk to 
nothing, and could have crept into a rat-hole— » 
unluckily, none was open to receive me. Be- 
fore I could recover from my confusion, I was 
tumbled over by pantaloon and the clown, and I 
felt the sword of harlequin making vigorous 
assaults in a manner most degrading to my 
dignity. 

Heaven and earth! was I again to stiffer 
martyrdom in this ignominious manner, in the 
knowledge and even before the very eyes of this 
most beautiful, but most disdainful of fair ones ? 
All my long-smothered wrath broke out at once ; 
the dormant feelings of the gentleman arose 
within me, stung to the quick by intolerable 
mortification. I sprang on my feet in an instant ; 
leaped up<m harlequin like a young tiger, tore 
off his mask, buffeted him in the face, and soon 



300 BUCKTHORNE. 

shed more blood on the stage than had been 
spilt upon it during a whole tragic campaign of 
battles and murders. 

As soon as harlequin recovered from his sur- 
prise, he returned my assault with interest : I 
was nothing in his hands. I was game, to be 
sure, for I was a gentleman; but he had the 
clownish advantage of bone and muscle. I felt 
as if I could have fought even unto the death ; 
and I was likely to do so, for he was, according 
to the boxing phrase, " putting my head into 
chancery,'* when the gentle columbine flew to 
my assistance. God bless the women ! they are 
always on the side of the weak and the oppressed ! 

The battle now became general ; the dramatis 
personae ranged on either side. The manager 
interposed in vain: in vain were his spangled 
black bonnet and towering white feathers seen 
whisking about, and nodding, and bobbing in 
the thickest of the fight. Warriors, ladies, 
priests, satyrs, kings, queens, gods and goddesses, 
all joined pell-mell in the fray : never, since the 
conflict under the walls of Troy, had there been 



BUCKTHORNE. 301 

such a chance-medley warfare of combatants^ 
human and divine. The audience applauded, 
the ladies shrieked, and fled from the theatre ; 
and a scene of discord ensued that baffles all 
description. 

Nothing but the interference of the peace 
officers restored some degree of order. The 
havoc, however, that had been made among 
dresses and decorations, put an end to all further 
acting for that day. The battle over, the next 
thing was to inquire why it was begun ; a com- 
mon question among politicians after a bloody 
and unprofitable war, and one not always easy 
to be answered. It was soon traced to me and 
my unaccoimtable transport of passion, which 
they could only attribute to my having run a 
muck. The manager was judge and jury tod 
plaintiff into the bargain ; and in such cases 
justice is always speedily administered. He 
came out of the fight as sublime a wreck as 
the Santissima Trinidada. His gallant plumes, 
which once towered aloft, were drooping about 
his ears ; his robe of state hung in ribands from 



302 BUCKTHORNE. 

his bade, and but ill concealed the ravages he 
had suffered in the rear. He had received kicks 
and cuffs from all sides during the tumult ; for 
every one took the opportunity of slily gratifying 
some lurking grudge on his fat carcass. He 
was a discreet man, and did not choose to declare 
war with all his company, so he swore all those 
kicks and cuffs had been given by me, and I let 
him enjoy the opinion. Some wounds he bore, 
however, which were the incontestable traces of 
a woman's warfare: his sleek rosy cheek was 
scored by trickling farrows, which w^e ascribed 
to the nails of my intrepid and devoted colum* 
bine. The ire of the monarch was not to be 
appeased : he had suffered in his person, and he 
had suffered in his purse; his dignity, too, had 
been insulted, and that went for something ; for 
dignity is always more irascible the more petty 
the potentate. He wreaked his wrath upon the 
beginners of the affray, and columbine and my- 
self were discharged, at once, &om the company. 
Figure me, then, to yoursdf, a striplijog of 
little more than sixte^i, a gentleman by birth. 



BUCKTHORNE. 803 

a vagabond by trade, turned adrift upon the 
world, making the best of my way through the 
crowd of West End fair : my mountebank dress 
fluttering in rags about me ; the weeping colum- 
bine hanging upon my arm, in splendid but 
tattered finery ; the tears coursing one by one 
down her face, carrying off the red paint in tor- 
rents, and literally " preying upon her damask 
cheek." 

The crowd made way for us as we passed, and 
hooted in our rear. I felt the ridicule of my 
situation, but had too much gallantry to desert 
this fair one, who had sacrificed every thing for 
me. Having wandered through the fair, we 
i emerged, like another Adam and Eve, into un- 
known regions, and ^* had the world before us 
where to choose." Never was a more discon- 
solate pair seen in the soft valley of West End. 
The luckless columbine cast back many a linger- 
ing look at the fair, which seemed to put on a 
more than usual splendour ; its tents, and booths, 
and party-coloured groups, all brightening in 
the sunshiiie, and gleaming ^mong the tr^es ; 



304 BUCKTHORNE. 

and its gay flags and streamers fluttering in the 
light summer airs. With a heavy sigh she 
would lean on my arm and proceed. I had no 
hope nor consolation to give her ; but she had 
linked herself to my fortunes ; and she was too 
much of a woman to desert me. 

Pensive and silent, then, we traversed the 
beautiful fields which lie behind Hampstead, and 
wandered on, imtil the fiddle, and the hautboy, 
and the shout, and the laugh, were swallowed 
up in the deep sound of the big bass drum, and 
even that died away into a distant rumble. We 
passed along the pleasant, sequestered walk of 
Nightingale-lane. — For a pair of lovers, what .ja 
scene could be more propitious? — But such slW 
pair of lovers ! Not a nightingale sang to soothe 
us : the very gipsies, who were encamped theie 
during the fair, made no offer to tell the fortunes 
of such an ill-omened couple, whose fortunes, 
I suppose, they thought too legibly written to 
need an interpreter ; and the gipsy-children 
crawled into their cabins, and peeped out fear- 
fully at us as we went by. For a moment I 



BUCKTHORNE. 305 

paused, and was almost tempted to turn gipsy ; 
but tKe poetical feeling, for the present, was 
fully satisfied, and I passed on. Thus we tra- 
velled and travelled, like a prince and princess 
in Nursery Tale, until we had traversed a 
part of Hampstead-heath, and arrived in the 
vicinity of Jack Straw's Castle. Here, wearied 
and dispirited, we seated ourselves on the mar- 
gin of the hill, hard by the very mile-stone where 
Whittington of yore heard the Bow-bells ring 
out the presage of his future greatness. Alas ! 
no bell rung an invitation to us, as we looked 
disconsolately upon the distant city. Old Lon- 
^bdon seemed to wrap itself unsociably in its 

T^mantle of brown smoke, and to offer no en- 

t 
cduragement to such a couple of tatterdemallions. 

For once, at least, the usual course of the pan^ 

tomime was reversed. Harlequin was jilted, and 

the lover had carried off columbine in good 

earnest. But what was I to dowith her? I 

could not take her in my hand, return to my 

father, throw myself on my knees, and crave 

his forgiveness and his blessing, according to 

VOL. I. X 



806 BUCKTHORNE. 

dramatic usage. The very dc^ would have 
chased such a draggle-tailed beauty from the 
grounds. 

In the midst of my doleful dumps, some one 
tapped me on my shoulder, and, looking up, I 
saw a couple of rough, sturdy fellows standing 
behind me. Not knowing what to expect, I 
jumped on my legs, and was preparing again to 
make battle ; but I was tripped up and secured 
in a twinkling. 

" Come, come, yoimg master," said one of the 
fellows, in a gruff but good-humoured tone, 
" don't let's have- any of your tantrums; one 
would have thought you had had swing enoughj^^ 
for this bout. — Come ; it 's high time to leave 
off harlequinading, and go home to your father." 

In fact, I had fallen into the hands of re- 
morseless men. The cruel Sacharissa had pro- 
claimed who I was, and that a reward had been 
offered throughout the country for any tidings 
of me ; and they had seen a description of me 
which had been inserted in the public papers. 
Those harpies, therefore, for the mere sake of 



BUCKTHORNE. S07 

filthy lucre, were resolved to deliver me over 
into the hands of my father, and the clutdies of 
my pedagogue. 

It was in vain that I swore I would not leave 
my faithful and afflicted columbine. It was in 
vain that I tare myself from their grasp, and 
flew to> her ; and vowed to protect her ; and 
wiped the tears from her cheek, and with them 
a whole blush that might have vied with the 
carnation for brilliancy. My persecutors were 
inflexible ; they even seemed to exult in our 
distress ; and to enjoy this theatrical display of 
dirt, and finery, and tribulation. I was carried 
off in despair, leaving my columbine destitute in 
the wi<k world ; but many a look of agony did 
I cast back at her as she stood gazing piteously 
after me from the brink of Hampstead-^hill ; so 
forlorn, so fine, so ragged, so bedraggled, yet so 
beautiful. 

Thus ended my first peep into the world. I 
retutned h(nne, rich in good-for-nothing eirpe- 
rience, and dreading the reward I was to receive 
for my improvement. My receptiem, however, 

X 2 



.■i:<;;i£l^k.K.?.^. 



SOS BUCKTHORNE. 

was qiiite different from what I had expected. 
My father had a spice of the devil in him, and 
did not seem to like me the worse for my £reak ; 
which he termed " sowing my wild oats." He 
happened to have some of his sporting friends 
to dine the very day of my return ; they made 
me tell some of my adventures ; and laughed 
heartily at them. 

One old fellow, with an outrageously red nose, 
took to me hugely. I heard him whisper to my 
father that I was a lad of mettle, and might 
make something clever ; to which my father re- 
plied, that I had good poii^ts, but was an ill- 
broken whelp, and required a great deal of the 
whip. Perhaps this very conversation raised 
me a little in his esteem, for I found the red- 
nosed old gentleman was a veteran fox-himter of 
the neighbourhood, for whose opinion my father 
had vast deference. Indeed, I believe he would 
have pardoned any thing in me more readily 
than poetry, which he called a cursed, sneaking, 
puling, housekeeping employment, the bane of 
all fine manhood. He swore it was unworthy 



BUCKTHORNE. S09 

of a youngster of my expectations^ who was one 
day to have so great an estate, and would be 
able to keep horses and hounds, and hire poets 
to write songs for him into the bargain. 

I had now satisfied, for a time, my roving 
propensity. I had exhausted the poetical feel- 
ing. I had been heartily buffeted out of my 
love for theatrical display. I felt humiliated by 
my exposure, and was willing to hide my head 
anywhere for a season, so that I might be i)ut 
of the way of the ridicule of the world ; for I 
found folks not altogether so indulgent abroad 
as they were at my father's table. I could not 
«tay at home ; the house was intolerably doleful 
now that my mother was no longer there to 
cherish me. Every thing around spoke mourn- 
fully of her. The little flower-garden, in which 
«he delighted, was all in disorder and overrua 
with weeds. I attempted, for a day or two, to 
arrange it, but my heart grew heavier and heavier 
as I laboured. Every little broken-down flower, 
that I had seen her rear so tenderly, seemed to 
plead in mute eloquence to my feelings. There 



810 BUCKJHOENE. 

was a favourite honeysuckle which I had seen 
her often training with assiduity, and had heard 
her say it should he the pride of her garden. I 
found it groveling along the ground, tangled 
and wild, and twining round every worthless 
weed, and it struck me as an emhlem of 
myself, a mere scatterling, running to waste 
and uselessness. I could work no longer in the 
garden. 

My father sent me to pay a visit to my uncle, 
by way of keeping the old gentleman in mind 
of me. I was received, as usual, without any 
expression of discontent, which we always con- 
sidered equivalent to a hearty welcome. Whe- 
ther he had ever heard of my strolling freak or 
not I could not discover, he and his man were 
both so taciturn. I i^nt a day or two roaming 
about the dreary mansion and neglected park, 
and felt at one time, I believe, a touch of poetry, 



for I was tempted to drown myself in a fish- 
pond ; I rebuked the evil spirit, however, and it 
left me. I found the same red^headed boy 
running wild about the park, but I felt in no 



BUCKTHORNE. Sll 

humour to hunt hun at present. On the con- 
trary, I tried to coax him to me, and to make 
friends with him; but the young savage was 
untameable. 

When I returned from my uncle's, I remained 
at home for some time, for my father was dis- 
posed, he said, to make a man of me. He took 
me out hunting with him, and I became a great 
favourite of the red-nosed squire, because I rode 
at every thing ; never refused the boldest leap, 
and was always sure to be in at the death. I 
used often, however, to offend my father at 
hunting dinners, by taking the wrong side in 
politics. My father was amazingly ignorant, so 
ignorant, in fact, as not to know that he knew 
nothing. He was stanch, however, to church 
and king, and frOl of old-fashioned prejudices. 
Now I had picked up a little knowledge in poli- 
tics and religion, during my rambles with the 
strollers, and found myself capable of setting 
him right as to many of his antiquated notions. 
I felt it my duty to do so ; we were apt, there- 
fore, to differ occasionally in the political dis- 



S12 BUCKTHOENE. 

cussions which sometimes arose at those himting 
dimiers. 

I was at that age when a man knows least, 
and is most vain of his knowledge, and when 
he is extremely tenacious in defending his opi- 
nion upon subjects about which he knows no^ 
thing. My father was a hard man for any one 
to argue with, for he never knew when he was 
refuted. I sometimes posed him a little, but 
then he had one argument that always settled 
the question ; he would threaten to knock me 
down. I believe he at last grew tired of me, 
because I both outtalked and outrode him. The 
red-nosed squire, too, got out of conceit of me, 
because, in the heat of the chase, I rode over 

• « 

him one day as he and his horse lay sprawling 
in the dirt : so I found myself getting in dis- 
grace with all the world, and would have got 
heartily out of humour with myself, had I not 
been kept in tolerable self-conceit by the par- 
son's three daughters. 

They were the same who had admired my 
poetry on a former occasion, when it had brought 



BUCKTHORNE. 313 

me into disgrace at sdiool, and I had ever since 
retained an exalted idea of their judgment. In- 
deed, they were young ladies not merely of taste 
but science. Their education had been superin- 
tended by their mother, who was a blue stocking. 
They knew enough of botany to tell the tech- 
nical names of all the flowers in the garden, 
and all their secret concerns into the bargain. 
They knew music too, not mere common-place 
music, but Rossini and Mozart, and they sang 
Moore's Irish Melodies to perfection. They had 
pretty little work-tables, covered with all kind 
of objects of taste ; specimens of lava, and 
painted eggs, and work-boxes, painted and var- 
nished by themselves. They excelled in knotting 
and netting, and painted in water-colours ; and 
made feather fans, and fire-screens, and worked 
in silks and worsteds ; and talked French and 
Italian, and knew Shakspeare by heart. They 
even knew something of geology and mineralogy ; 
and went about the neighbourhood knocking 
stones to pieces, to the great admiration and 
perplexity of the country folk. 



314 BUCKTHORNE. 

I am a little too minute, perhaps, in detailing 
their accomplishments, but I wish to let you 
see that these were not common-place young 
ladies, but had pretensions quite above the ordi* 
nary run. It was some consolation to me, 
therefore, to find favour in such eyes. Indeed, 
they had always marked me out for a genius, 
and considered my late vagrant freak as fresh 
proof of the fact. They observed that Shak- 
speare himself had been a mere Pickle in his 
youth ; that he had stolen deer, as every one 
knew ; and kept loose company, and consorted 
with actors : so I comforted myself marvellously 
with the idea of having so decided a Shak- 
jspearean trait in my character. 

The youngest of the three, however, was 
tny grand consolation. She was a pale, sen- 
timental girl, with long ** hyacinthine" ring- 
lets hanging about her face. She wrote poetry 
herself, and we kept up a poetical correspond- 
ence. She had a taste for the drama too, and I 
taught her how to act several of the scenes in 
Romeo and Juliet. I jised to rehearse the gar- 



DUCKTHOllNE. S15 

den scene under her lattice, which looked out 
from among woodbine and honeysuckles into 
the churchyard. I began to think her amazingly 
pretty as well as clever, and I believe I should 
have finished by falling in love with her, had 
not her father discovered our theatrical studies. 
He was a studious, abstracted man, generally 
too much absorbed in his learned and religious 
labours to notice the little foibles of his daugh- 
ters, and, perhaps, blinded by a father's fondness ; 
but he unexpectedly put his head out of his 
study window one day in the midst of a scene, 
and put a stop to our rehearsals. He had a 
vast deal of that prosaic good sense which I for 
ever found ^ stumblingblock , in my poetical 
path. My rambling freak had not struck the 
good man as poetically as it had his daughters. 
He drew his comparison from a different manual. 
He looked upon me as a prodigal son, and 
doubted whether I should ever arrive at the 
happy catastrophe of the fatted calf. 

I fancy some intimation -was given to my 
father of this new breaking out of my poetical 



\ 



316 BUCKTHORNE. 

temperament, for he suddenly intimated that it 
was high time I should prepare for the univer- 
sity. I dreaded a return to the school from 
whence I had eloped : the ridicule of my fellow- 
scholars, and the glances from the squire's pew, 
would have been worse than death to me. I 
was fortunately spared the humiliation. My 
father sent me to board with a country clergy- 
man, who had three or four other boys under 
his care. I went to him joyfully, for I had often 
heard my mother mention him with esteem. In 
fact, he had been an admirer of hers in his 
younger days, though too humble in fortune 
and modest in pretensions to aspire to her hand ; 
but he had ever retained a tender regard for her. 
He was a good man ; a worthy specimen of that 
valuable body of our country clergy who silently 
and unostentatiously do a vast deal of good ; 
who are, as it were, woven into the whole 
system of rural life, and operate upon it with 
the steady yet unobtrusive influence of tem- 
perate piety and learned good sense. He lived 
in a small village not far from Warwick, one of 



BUCKTHORNE. 317 

those little communities where the scanty flock 
is, in a manner, folded into the bosom of the 
pastor. The venerable church, in its grass- 
grown cemetery, was one of those rural temples 
which are scattered about our country as if to 
sanctify the land. 

I have the 'worthy pastor before my mind's 
eye at this moment, with his mild benevolent 
countenance, rendered still more venerable by 
his jsilver hairs. I have him before me, as I 
saw him on my arrival,, seated in the embowered 
porch of his small parsonage, with a flowef-gar^ 
den before it, and his pupils gathered round 
him like his children. I shall never forget his 
reception of m6, for I believe he thought of my 
poor mother at the time, and his heart yearned 
towards her child. His eye glistened when he 
received me at the door, and he took me into 
his arms as the adopted child of his affections. 
Never had I been so fortunately placed. He was 
one of those excellent members of our church, who 
help out their narrow salaries by instructing a 
few gentlemen's sons. I am convinced those 



318 BUCKTHORNE, 

little seminaries are among the best nurseriei^ of 
talent and virtue in the land. Both" heart and 
mind are cultivated and improved. The pre* 
ceptor is the companion and the friend of his 
pupils. His sacred character gives him dignity 
in their eyes, and his solemn functions produce 
that elevation of mind and sobriety of conduct 
necessary to those who are to teadi youth to 
iWnk and act warthUy. 

I Bpeak from my own random observation 
and experience^ but I think I speak correctly. 
At any rat^ I can trace much of what is good 
in my own heterogeneous compound to the short 
time I was under the instruction of that good 
man. He eiattered inta the cares and occupa- 
tions and amusements- of his pupils^; and won 
his way into cmr confid^ice, and studied our 
hearts and minds more intently than we did our 
books. 

He soon.soujided the depdt of my character. I 
had become, as I have already hinted, a little 
liberal m my notions, and i^ to phitosopfadse on 
both politics and rehgion ; having seen sconi 



BUCKTHORNE. 319 

of men and things, and learnt, from my fellow- 
philosophers, the strollers, to despise all vulgar 
prejudices. He did not attempt to cast down my 
vain glory, nor to question my right view of things; 
he merely instilled into my mind a little informa- 
tion on these topics ; though in a quiet, unob- 
trusive way, that never ruffled a feather of my 
self-conceit. I was astonished to find what a 
change a little knowledge makes in one's mode 
of viewing matters ; and how very different a 
subject is when one thinks or when one only 
talks about it. I conceived a vast deference for my 
teacher, and was ambitious of his good opinion. 
In my zeal to make a favourable impression, I 
presented him with a whole ream of my poetry^ 
He read it attentively, smiled, and pressed my 
hand when he returned it to me, but said no- 
thing. The next day be set me at mathei^ 
matics. 

Somehow or o^er the process of teaching 
seemed robbed by him of all its austerity. I was 
not conscious that he thwarted an inclination or 
opposed a wish, but I felt that, for the time, my 



320 BUCKTHORNE. 

inclinations were entirely changed. I became 
fond of study, and zealous to improve myself. 
I made tolerable advances in studies which I 
had before considered as unattainable, and I 
wondered at my own proficiency. I thought, 
too, I astonished my preceptor, for I often caught 
his eyes fixed upon me with a peculiar expres- 
sion ; I suspect, since, that he was pensively 
tracing in my countenance the early lineaments 
of my mother. 

Education was not apportioned by him into 
tasks and enjoined as a labour, to be abandoned 
with joy the moment the hour of study was ex- 
pired. We had, it is true, our allotted hours 
of occupation to give us habits of method, and 
of the distribution of time ; but they were made 
pleasant to us, and our feelings were enlisted in 
the cause.- When they were over, education 
still went on. It pervaded all our relaxations 
^nd amusements. There was a steady march 
of improvement. Much of his instruction was 
given during pleasant rambles, or when seated 
on the mai^n of the Avon ; and information 



BUCKTHORNE. 321 

received in that way often makes a deeper im- 
pression than when acquired by poring over 
books. I have many of the pure and eloquent 
precepts which flowed from his lips associated 
in my mind with lovely scenes in nature, which 
make the recollection of them indescribably 
delightful. 

I do not pretend to say that any miracle was 
effected with me. After all said and done, I 
was but a weak disciple. My poetical tempera- 
ment still wrought within me and wrestled hard 
with wisdom, and, I fear, maintained the ma- 
stery. I found mathematics an intolerable task 
in fine weather. I would be prone to forget 
my problems to watch the birds hopping about 
the windows, or the bees humming about the 
honeysuckles ; and whenever I could steal away, 
I would wander about the grassy borders of the 
Avon, and excuse this truant propensity to my- 
self with the idea that I was treading classic 
ground, over which Shakspeare had wandered. 
What luxurious idleness have I indulged as I 
lay under the trees and watched the silver waves 

VOL. I. Y 



322 B€CKTHORNE. 

rippling through the arches of the broken bridge, 
and laving the rocky bases of old Warwick 
Castle ; and how often have I thought of sweet 
Shakspeare, and in my boyish enthusiasm have 
kissed the waves which had washed his native 
village. 

My good preceptor would often accompany 
me in these desultory rambles. He sought to 
get hold of this vagrant mood of mind and turn 
it to some account. He endeavoured to teach 
me to mingle thought with mere sensation ; to 
moralize on the scenes around; and to make 
the beauties of nature administer to the under- 
standing and the heart. He endeavoured to di- 
rect my imagination to high and noble objects, 
and to fill it with lofty images. In a word, he 
did all he could to make the best of a poetical 
temperament, and to counteract the mischief 
which had been done to me by my great ex- 
pectations. 

Had I been earlier put under the care of the 
good pastor, or remained with him a longer 
time, I really believe he would have made some- 



BUCKTHORNE. 323 

thing of me. He had abeady brought a great 
deal of what had been flogged into me into 
tolerable order, and had weeded out much of 
the unprofitable wisdom which had sprung up 
in my vagabondizing. I already b^an to find 
that with all my genius a little study would be 
no disadvantage to me; and, in spite of my 
vagrant freaks, I began to doubt my being a 
see(md Shakspeare. 

Just as I was making these precious disco- 
veries, the good parson died. It was a melan- 
choly day throughout the neighbourhood. He 
had his little flock of scholars, his children as he 
used to call ujs, gathered round him in his djdng 
moments ; and he gave us the parting advice of 
a father, now that he had to leave us, and we 
were to be separated from each other and scat- 
tered about in the world. He took me by the 
hand, and talked with me earnestly and affec- 
tionately, and called to mind my mother, and 
used her name to enforce his dying exhortations, 
for I rather think he considered me the most 
erring and heedless of his flocks He held my 

Y 2 



324 BUCKTHOKNE. 

hand in his, long after he had done speaMiig, 
and kept his eyes fixed on me tenderly and almost 
piteously : his lips moved as if he were silently 
praying for me ; and he died away, still holding 
me by the hand. 

There was not a dry eye in the church when 
the funeral service was read from the pulpit from 
which he had so often preached. When the 
body was committed to the earth, our little band 
gathered round it, and watched the cofiin as it 
was lowered into the grave. T^ie parishioners 
looked at us with sympathy ; for we were 
mourners riot merely in dress but in heart. We 
lingered about the grave, and clung to one an- 
other for a time, weeping and speechless, and 
then parted, like a band of brothers parting 
from the paternal hearth, never to assemble 
there again. 

How had the gentle spirit of that good man 
sweetened our natures and linked our young 
hearts together by the kindest ties ! I have , 
ialways had a throb of pleasure at meeting with 
an old school-mate, even though one of my 



BUCKTHORNE. 325 

truant associates ; but whenever, in the course 
of my life, I have encountered one of that little 
flock with which I was folded on the banks of 
the Avon, it has been with a gush of affection, 
and a glow of virtue, that for the moment have 
made me a better man. 

I was now sent to Oxford, and was wonder- 
fully impressed on first entering it as a student. 
Learning here puts on all its majesty; it is 
lodged in palaces; it is sanctified by the sacred 
ceremonies of religion ; it has a pomp and cir- 
cumstance which powerfully affect the ima- 
gination. Such, at least, it had in my eyes, 
thoughtless as I was. My previous studies with 
the worthy pastor had prepared me to regard it 
with deference and awe. He had been educated 
here, and always spoke of the University with 
filial fondness and classic veneration. When I 
beheld the clustering spires and pinnacles of this 
most august of cities rising from the plain, I 
hailed them in my enthusiasm as the points of 
a diadem which the nation had placed upon the 
brows of science. 



326 BUCKTHOBME. 

For a time old Oxford was full of enjoyment 
for me. There was a charm about its monastic 
buildings; its great Gothic quadrangles; its 
solemn halls, and shadowy cloisters. I delighted, 
in the evenings, to get in places surrounded 
by the colleges, where all modem buildings 
were screened from the sight, and to see the 
professors and students sweeping along in the 
dusk in their antiquated caps and gowns. I 
seemed for a time to be transported among the 
people and edifices of the old times. I was a 
frequent attendant, also, of the evening service 
in the New College Hall, to hear the fine organ, 
and the choir swelling an anthem in that 
solemn building, where painting, music, and 
architecture are in such admirable unison. 

A favourite haunt, too, was the beautiful walk 
bordered by lofty elms along the river, behind 
the gray walls of Magdalen College, which goes 
by the name of Addison's Walk, from being his 
favourite resort when an Oxford student* I 
became also a loimger in the Bodleian library, 
and a great dipper into books, though I cannot 



BUCKTHORNE. 327 

say that I studied them ; in fact, being no longer 
under direction nor control, I was gradually re- 
lapsing into mere indulgence of the fancy. Still 
this would have been pleasant and harmless 
enough, and I might have awakened from mere 
literary dreaming to something better. The 
chances were in my favour, for the riotous times 
of the University w^re past. The days of hard 
drinking were at an end. The old feuds of 
" Town and Gown," like the civil wars of the 
White and Red Rose, had died away, and 
student and citizen slept in peace and whole 
skinSf without risk of being summoned in the 
night to bloody brawl. It had become the 
fashion to study at the University, and the odds 
were always in favour of my following the 
fashion. Unluckily, however, I fell in company 
with a special knot of young fellows, of lively 
parts and ready wit, who had lived occasionally 
upon town, and becopie initiated into the Fancy. 
They voted study to be the toil of dull minds, 
by which they slowly crept up the hill, while 
genius arrived at it at a bound. I felt ashamed 



328 BUCKTHORNE. 

to play the owl among such gay birds; so I 
threw by my books, and became a man of spirit. 

As my father made me a tolerable allowance, 
notwithstanding the narrowness of his income, 
having an eye always to my great expectations, 
I was enabled to appear to advantage among my 
companions. I cultivated all kinds of sports and 
exercises. I was one of the most expert oars- 
men that rowed on the Isis. I boxed, fenced, 
angled, shot, and hunted, and my rooma in col- 
lege were always decorated with whips of all 
kinds, spurs, fowling-pieces, fishing-rods^ foils, 
and boxiiig-gloves. A pair of leather breeches 
would seem to be^ throwing one leg out of the 
half-open drawers, and empty bottles lumbered 
the bottom of every closet. 

My father came to see me at college when I 
was in the height of my career. He asked me 
how I came on with my studies, and what kind 
of hunting there was in the neighbourhood. He 
examined my various sporting apparatus with a 
curious eye ; wanted to know if any of the pro- 
fessors were fox-hunters, and whether they were 



BUCKTHORNE. 339 

generally good shots, for he suspected their 
studymg so much must be hurtful to the sight; 
We had a day's shooting together : I delighted 
him with my skill, and astonished him by my 
learned- disquisitions on horse-flesh, and on 
Manton's guns; so, upon the whole, he de- 
parted highly satisfied with my improvement at 
college. 

I do not know how it is, but I cannot be idle 
long without getting in love. I had not been a 
very long time a man of spirit, therefore, before 
I became deeply enamoured of a shopkeeper's 
daughter in the High-street, who, in fact, was 
the admiration of many of the students. I 
wrote several sonnets in praise of her, and spent 
half of my pocket-money at the shop, in buying 
articles which I did not want, that I might have 
an opportunity of speaking to her. Her father, 
a severe-looking old gentleman, with bright silver 
buckles, and a crisp-curled wig, kept a strict 
guard on her, as the fathers generally do upon 
their daughters in Oxford, and well they may. 
I tried to get into his good graces; and to be 



880 BUCKTHORNE. 

sociable with him, but all in vain. I said se- 
veral good things in his shop, but he never 
laughed ; he had no relish fot wit and humour. 
He was one of those dry old gentlemen who 
keep youngsters at bay. He had already brought 
up two or three daughters, and was experienced 
in the ways of students. — He was as knowing 
and wary as a gray old badger that has often 
been himted. To see him on Simday, so stiff 
and starched in his demeanour, so precise in his 
dress, with his daughter under his arm, wbb 
enou^ to deter all graceless youngsters from 
approaching. 

I managed, however, in spite of his vigilance, 
to have several conversations with the daughter, 
as I cheapened articles in the shop. I made ter- 
rible long bargains, and examined the articles 
over and over before I purchased. In the mean 
time, I would convey a sonnet or an acrostic 
under cover of a piece of cambric, or slipped 
into a pair of stockings ; I would whisper soft 
nonsense into her ear as I haggled about the 
price ; and would squeeze her hand tenderly as 



P 



BUCKTHORNE. 381 

I received my halfpence of change in a bit of 
whity-brown paper. Let this serve as a hint to 
all haberdashers who have pretty daughters for 
shop-girls, and young students for customers. I 
do not know whether my words and looks were 
very eloquent, but my poetry was irresistible ; 
for, to tell the truth, the girl had some literary 
taste, and was seldom without a book from the 
circulating library. 

By the divine power of poetry, therefore, 
which is so potent with the lovely sex, did I 
subdue the heart of this fair little haberdasher. 
We carried on a sentimental correspondence for 
a time across the counter, and I supplied her 
with rhyme by the stocking-full. At length 1 
prevailed on her to grant an assignation. But 
how was this to be effected ? Her father kept 
her always under his eye ; she never walked out 
alone ; and the house was locked up the moment 
that the shop was shut. All these difficulties 
served but to give zest to the adventure. I pro- 
posed that the assignation should be in her own 
chamber, into which I would climb at night. 



332 BUCKTHORNE. 

The plan was irresistible — A cruel father, a 
secret lover, and a clandestine meeting! All 
the little girl's studies from the circulating li- 
brary seemed about to be realised. 

But what had I in view in making this as- 
signation ? Indeed, I know not. I had no evil 
intentions, nor can I say that I had any good ones. 
I liked the girl, and wanted to have an oppor- 
tunity of seeing more of her ; and the assigna- 
tion was made, as I have done many things else, 
heedlessly and without forethought. I asked 
myself a few questions of the kind, after all my 
arrangements were made, but the answers were 
very unsatisfactory. "Am I to ruin this poor 
thoughtless girl ?** said I to myself. " No !" 
was the prompt and indignant answer. " Am 
I to run away with her ?** — " Whither, and to 
what purpose ?" — " Well, then, am I to marry 
her ?" — " Poh ! a man of my expectations marry 
a shopkeeper's daughter !" " What then am I 
to do with her?" " Hum — why — let me get 
into the chamber first, and then consider — *' and 
so the self-examination ended. 



BUCKTHORNE. 338 

Well, sir, " come what come might," I stole 
under cover of the darkness to the dwelling 
of my Dulcinea. All was quiet. At the con- 
certed signal her window was' gently opened. It 
was just above the projecting bow-window of her 
father's shop, which assisted me in mounting. 
The house was low, and I was enabled to scale 
the fortress with tolerable ease. I clambered 
with a beating heart ; I reached the casement ; 
I hoisted my body half into the chamber ; and 
was welcomed, not by the embraces of my ex- 
pecting fair one, but by the grasp of the crabbed- 
looking old father in the crisp-curled wig. 

I extricated myself from his clutches, and 
endeavoured to make my retreat; but I was 
confounded by his cries of thieves ! and robbers ! 
I wad bothered, too, by his Sunday cane, which 
was amazingly busy about my he^ as I de- 
scended, and against which my hat was but a 
poor protection. Never before had I an idea of 
the activity of an old man's arm, and the hardness 
of the knob of an ivory-headed cane. In my 
hurry and confusion I missed my footing, and 



9S4 BtrCKTHORNE. 

fell iprawling on the pavement. I was imme- 
diately gurronnded by myrmidons, who, I doubt 
not, were on the watch for me. Indeed, I was 
in no situation to Escape, for I had sprained my 
ankle in the fall, and could not stand. I was 
seized as a housebreaker ; and to exonerate my- 
self of a greater crime, I had to accuse myself 
oE a less. I made known who I was, and why 
I came there. Alas ! the varlets knew it already, 
and were only amusing themselres at my expense. 
My perfidious muse had been playing me one of 
her slippery tricks. The old curmudgeon of a 
father had found my sonnets and acrostics hid 
away in holes and comers of his shop : he had 
no taste for poetry like his daughter, and had 
instituted a rigorous though silent observation. 
He h^ moused upon our letters, detected our 
plans, and prepared every thing for my reception. 
Thus was I ever doomed to be led into scrapes 
hy the muse. Let no man hencdGortli carry on 
a seciet amour in poetry ! 

The old man's ire was in some measure ap^ 
peased by the pommeling of my head and the 






BUCKTHORNE. SS5 

anguish of my sprain ; so he did not put me to 
death on the spot. He was even humane enough 
to furnish a shutter, on which I was carried hsxk 
to college like a wounded wlarrior. The porter 
was roused to admit me. The college gate was 
thrown open for my entry. The affair was blazed 
about the next morning, and became the joke of 
the college from the buttery to the hall. 

I had leisure to repent during several weeks' 
confinement by my sprain, which I passed in 
translating Boethius' Consolations of Philoso- 
phy. I received a most tender and ill-spelled 
letter from my mistress, who had been sent to a 
relation in Coventry. She protested her inno-* 
cence of my misfDrtunes, and vowed to be true 
to me ^^ till deth." I took no notice of the let« 
ter, for I was cured^ for the present, both of love 
and poetry. Women^^ however, are more constant 
in their attachments than men, whatever philo- 
sophers may say to the contrary. I am assured 
that she actually remained faithful to her vow 
for several months ; but she had to deal with a 
cruel father, whose heart was as hard as the knob 



N 



S36 BUCKTHORNE. 

of his cane. He was not to be touched by teara 
or poetry, but absolutely compelled her to marry 
a reputable young tradesman, who made her a 
happy woman in spite of herself, and of all the 
rules of romance ; and what is more, the mother 
of several children. They are at this very day a 
thriving couple, and keep a snug comer shop, just 
opposite the figure of Peeping Tom, at Coventry. 

I will not fatigue you by any more details 
of my studies at Oxford, though they were not 
always as severe as these ; nor did I always pay 
as dear for my lessons. To be brief, then, I 
lived on in my usual miscellaneous manner, 
gradually getting knowledge of good and evil, 
until I had attained my twenty-first year. I 
had scarcely come of age when I heard of the 
sudden death of my father. The shock was 
severe, for though he had never treated me 
with much kindness, still he was my father, and 
at his death I felt alone in the world. 

I returned home, and found myself the soli- 
tary master of the paternal mansion. A crowd 
of gloomy feelings came thronging upon me. 



BtJCKTHORNE. 337 

It was a place that always sobered me, and 
brought me to reflection; now especially^ it 
looked so deserted and melancholy. I entered 
the little breakfasting room. There were my fa- 
ther's whip and spurs hanging by the fire-place ; 
the Stud-book, Sporting Magazine, and Racing 
Calendar, his only reading. His favourite spaniel 
lay on the hearthrug. The poor animal, who 
had never before noticed me, now came fondling 
about me, licked my hand, then looked round 
the room, whined, wagged his tail slightly, and 
gazed wistfully in my face. I felt the full force 
of the appeal. " Poor Dash," said I, " we are 
both alone in the world, with nobody to care for 
us, and will take care of one another." — The 
dog never quitted me afterwards. 

I could not go into my mother's room— my 
heart swelled when I passed within sight of the 
door. Her portrait hung in the parlour, just 
over the place where she used to sit. As I cast 
my eyes on it, I thought it looked at me with 
tenderness, and I burst into tears. I was a 
careless dog, it is true, hardened a little, perhaps, 

VOL. I. . z 



SS8 BUCKTHORNE. 

by living in public schools, and buffeting about 
among strangers, who cared nothing for me ; but 
the recollection of a mother's tenderness was 
overcoming. 

I was not of an age or a temperament to be 
long depressed. There was a re-action in my 
system that always brought me up again after 
every pressure; and, indeed, my spirits were 
most buoyant after a temporary prostration. I 
settled the concerns of the estate as soon as pos- 
sible ; realised my property, which was not very 
considerable, but which appeared a vast deal to 
me, having a poetical eye that magnified every 
thing ; and finding myself, at the end of a few 
months, free of all further business or restraint^ 
I determined to go to London, and enjoy myself. 
Why should not I ? — I was young, animated, 
joyous ; had plenty of funds for present plea- 
sures, and my imcle's estate in the perspective. 
Let those mope at college, and pore over books, 
thought I, who have their way to make in the 
world; it would be ridiciilous drudgery in a 
youth of my expectations. 



BUCKTHORNE. 389 

Away to London, therefore, I rattled in a 
tandem, determined to take the town gaily. I 
passed through several of the villages where I 
had played the Jack Pudding a few years before ; 
and I visited the scenes of many of my adven- 
tures and follies, merely from that feeling of 
melancholy pleasure which we have in stepping 
again in the footprints of foregone existence, 
even when they have passed among weeds and 
briars. I made a circuit in the latter part of 
my journey, so as to take in West End land 
Hampstead, the scenes of my last dramatic 
exploit, and of the battle royal of the booths 
As I drove along the ridge of Hampstead 
Hill, by Jack Straw's Castle, I paused at the 
spot where columbine and I had sat down so dis- 
consolately in our ragged finery, and had looked 
dubiously on London. I almost expected to see 
her again, standing on the hill's brink, '^ like 
Niobe, all tears ;"^— mournful as Babylon in 
ruins! 

" Poor columbine !" said I, with a heavy sigh, 
" thou wert a gallant, generous girl — a true 

z 2 



340 BUCKTHOttNE. 

woman; faithful to the distressed, and ready. to 
sacrifice thyself in the cause of worthless man !" 

I tried to whistle off the recollection of her, 
for there was always something of self-reproach 
with it. I drove gaily along the road, enjoying 
the stare of hostlers and stable-boys as I ma- 
naged my horses knowingly down the steep 
street of Hampstead ; when, just at the skirts of 
the village, one of the traces of my leader came 
loose. I pulled up, and, as the animal was 
restive, and my servant a bungler, I called for 
assistance to the robustious master of a snug ale- 
house, who stood at his door with a tankard in 
his hand. He came readily to assist me, fol- 
lowed by his wife, with her bosom half open, a 
child in her arms, and two more at her heels. 
I stared for a moment as if doubting my eyes. 
I could not be mistaken : in the fat beer-blown 
landlord of the ale-house I recognised my old 
rival harlequin, and in his slattern spouse, the 
once trim and dimpling columbine. 

The change of my looks from youth to man- 
hood, and the change of my circumstances. 



BUCKTHOKNE. 341 

prevented them from recognising me. They 
could not suspect in the dashing young buck, 
fashionably dressed, and driving his own equi- 
page, the painted beau with old peaked hat, 
and long, flimsy, sky-blue coat. My heart 
yearned with kindness towards columbine, and 
I was glad to see her establishment a thriving 
one. As soon as the harness was adjusted, I 
tossed a small purse of gold into her ample 
bosom ; and then, pretending to give my horses 
a hearty cut of the whip, I made the lash curl 
with a whistling about the sleek sides of ancient 
harlequin. The horses dashed off like lightning, 
and I was whirled out of sight before either of the 
parties could get over their surprise at my liberal 
donations. I have always considered this as 
one of the greatest proofs of my poetical ge- 
nius; it was distributing poetical justice in 
perfection. 

I now entered London en cavalier y and be- 
came a blood upon town. I took fashionable 
lodgings in the west end; employed the first 



342 BUCKTHOHKE. 

tailor ; frequented the regular loimges ; gambled 
a little ; lost my money good-humouredly, and 
gained a number of fashionable, good-for-nothing 
acquaintances. I gained some reputation, also, 
fox a man of science, having become an expert 
boxer in the course of my studies at Oxford. I 
was distinguished, therefore, among the gentle- 
men of the fancy ; became hand and glove with 
certain boxing noblemen, and was the admira- 
tion of the Fives Court. A gentleman's science, 
however, is apt to get him into sad scrapes : he 
is too prone to play the knight-errant, and to 
pick up quarrels which less scientific gentlemen 
would quietly avoid. I undertook one day to 
pimish the insolence of a porter; he was a 
Hercules of a fellow, but then I was so secure 
in my science ! I gained the victory of course. 
The porter pocketed his humiliation, bound up 
his broken head, and went about his business as 
unconcernedly as though nothing had happened ; 
while I went to bed with my victory, and did 
not dare to show my battered face for a fort- 



BUCKTHORNE. 343 

night, by which I discovered that a gentleman 
may have the worst of the battle even when 

victorious. 

I am naturally a philosopher, and no one can 

moralize better after a misfortune has takeii 

place: so I lay on my bed and moralij^ on this 

sorry ambition, which levels the gentleman with 

the clown. I know it is the opinion of many 

sages, who have thought deeply on these matters^ 

that the noble science of boxing keeps up the bull* 

dog courage of the natron ; and far be it from me 

to decry the advantage of becoming a nation 

of bull-dogs; but I now saw clearly that it 

was calculated to keep up the breed of English 

ff 
ruffians. " What is the Fives Court," said I to 

myself, as I turned uncomfortably in bed, " but 
a college of scoundrelism, where every bully- 
ruffian in the land may gain a fellowship ? What 
is the slang language of * The Fancy' but a jargon 
by which fools and knaves commune and un«- 
derstand each other, and enjoy a kind of su- 
periority over the uninitiated? What is a boxing- 
match but an arena, where the noble and the 



344 BUCKTHORNE. 

iUustrioug are jostled into familiarity with the 
infamous and the vulgar ? What, in fact, is The 
Fancy itself, but a chain of easy communication, 
extending from the peer down to the (ndcpocket, 
through the medium of which, a man of rank 
may find, he has shaken hands, at three removeSt 
with the murderer on the gibbet ? — 

"Enough !" ejaculated I, thoroughly ccmvinced 
through the force of my philosophy, and thc^ 
pain of my bruises — " I '11 have nothing more to 
do with The Fancy." So when I had recovered 
from my victory, I turned my attention to 
softer themes, and became a devoted admirer of 

the ladies. Had I had more industry and ambi- 

« 

tion in my nature, I might have worked my 
way to the very height of fashion, as I saw 
many laborious gentlemen doing around me. 
But it is a toilsome, an anxious, and aH unhappy 
life : there are few beings so sleepless and mi- 
serable as your cultivators of fashionable smiles. 
I was quite content with that kind of society 
which forms the frontiers of fashion, and may 
be eamly taken possession of. I found it a light. 



BUCKTHOENE. 345, 

easy, productive soil. I had but to go about 
and sow visiting cards, and I reaped a whole 
harvest of invitations. Indeed, my figure and 
address were by no means against me. It was 
whispered, too, among the young ladies, that I 
was prodigiously clever, and wrote poetry ; and 
the old ladies had ascertained that I was a young 
gentleman of good family, handsome fortune, 
and " great expectations." 

I now was carried away by the hurry of gay 
life, so intoxicating to a young man, and which 
a man of poetical temperament enjoys so highly 
on his first tasting of it : that rapid variety of 
sensations ; that whirl of brilliant objects ; that 
succession of pungent pleasures ! I had no time 
for thought. I only felt. I never attempted to 
write poetry ; my poetry seemed all to go off 
by transpiration. I lived poetry ; it was all a 
poetical dream to me. A mere sensualist knows 
nothing of the delights of a splendid metropolis. 
He lives in a round of animal gratifications and 
heartless habits. But to a young man of poetical 
feelings, it is an ideal world, a scene of enchant* 



346 BUCKTHOKN£. 

ment and delusion ; his imagination is in per- 
petual excitement, and gives a spiritual zest to 
every pleasure. 

A season of town-life, however, somewhat so- 
bered me of my intoxication ; or, rather, I was 
rendered more serious by one of my old com- 
plaints — I fell in love. It was with a very 
pretty, though a very haughty fair one, who 
had come to London under the care of an old 
maiden aunt to enjoy the pleasures of a winter 
in town, and to get married. There was not a 
doubt of her commanding a choice of lovers; 
for she had long been the belle of a little ca- 
thedral city, and one of the poets of the place 
had absolutely celebrated her beauty in a copy 
of Latin verses. The most extravagant anti- 
cipations were formed by her friends of the 
fiensation she would produce. It was feared by 
some that she might be precipitate in her choice, 
and take up with some inferior title. The aunt 
Was determined nothing should gain her under 
a lord. 

Alas ! with all her charms, the yoimg lady 



BUCKTHORNE. 347 

lacked the one thing needful — she had no money. 
So she waited in vain for duke, marquis, or earl, 
to throw himself at her feet. As the season 
waned, so did the lady's expectations; when, 
just towards the close, I made my advances. 

I was most favourably received by both the 
young lady and her aunt. It is true, I had 
no title ; but then such great expectations ! A 
marked preference was imniediately shown me 
over two rivals, the yoimger son of a needy ba- 
ronet, and a captain of dragoons on half-pay. 
I did not absolutely take the field in form, for 
I was determined not to be precipitate ; but I 
drove my equipage frequently through the street 
in which she lived, and was always sure to see 
her at the window, generally with a book in her 
hand. I resumed my knack at rhyming, and 
sent her a long copy of verses ; anonymously, to 
be sure ; but she knew my handwriting. Both 
aunt and niece, however, displayed the most de- 
lightful ignorance on the subject. The young 
lady showed them to me ; wondered w^io they 
could be written by; and declared there was 



348 BUCKTHORNE. 

nothing in this world she loved so much as 
poetry : while the maiden aunt would put her 
pinching spectacles on her nose, and read them, 
with blunders in sense and sound, that were ex- 
cruciating to an author's ears ; protesting there 
was nothing equal to them in the whole Elegant 
Extracts. 

The fashionable season closed without my 
adventuring to make a declaration, though I 
certainly had encouragement. I was not per- 
fectly sure that I had effected a lodgment in 
the young lady's heart ; and, to tell the truth, 
the aunt overdid her part, and was a little too 
extravagant in her liking of me. I knew that 
maiden aimts were not apt to be captivated by 
the mere personal merits of their nieces' ad- 
mirers ; and I wanted to ascertain how much of 
all this favour I owed to driving an equipage 
and having great expectations. 

I had received many hints how charming their 
native place was during the summer months; 
what pleasant society they had; and what 
beautiful drives about the neighbourhood. They 



BUCKTHOUNE. 340 

had not, tjherefore, returned home long, before 
I made my appearance in dashing style, driving 
down the principal street. The very next morn- 
ing I was seen at prayers, seated in the same 
pew with the reigning belle. Questions were 
whispered about the aisles, after service, " Who 
is he ?" and " What is he ?" And the replies 
were as usual, " A young gentleman of good 
family and fortune, and great expectations." 

I was much struck with the peculiarities of 
this reverend little place. A cathedral, with its 
dependencies and regulations, presents a picture 
of other times, and of a different order of things. 
It is a rich relique of a more poetical age. 
There still linger about it the silence and so- 
lemnity of the cloister. In the present instance 
especially, where the cathedral was large, and 
the town was small, its influence was the more 
apparent. The solemn pomp of the service, 
performed twice a day, with the grand intona- 
tions of the organ, and the voices of the choir 
swelling through the magnificent pile, diffused, 
as it were, a perpetual sabbath over the place. 



850 BUCKTHORNE. 

This routine of solemn ceremony continually 
going on, independent as it were of the world ; 
this daily offering of melody and praise ascend- 
ing like incense from the altar, had a powerful 
effect upon my imagination. 

The aimt introduced me to her coterie, 
formed of families connected with the cathe- 
dral, and others of moderate fortune, but high 
respectability, who had nestled themselves under 
the wings of the cathedral to enjoy good society 
at moderate expense. It was a highly aristo- 
cratical little circle ; scrupulous in its intercourse 
with others, and jealously cautious about ad- 
mitting any thing common or unclean. 

It seemed as if the courtesies of the old school 
had taken refuge here. There were continual 
interchanges of civilities, and of small presents 
of fruits and delicacies, and of complimentary 
crow-quill billets; for in a quiet, well-bred 
community like this, living entirely at ease, 
little duties, and little amusements, and little 
, civilities, fill up the day. I have seen,^ in the 
midst of a warm day, a corpulent powdered 



BUCKTHORNE. 351 

footman issuing from the iron gateway of a 
stately mansion, and traversing the little place 
with an air of mighty import, bearing a small 
tart on a large silver salver. 

Their evening amusements, were sober and 
primitive. They assembled at a moderate 
hour ; the young ladies played music and the 
old ladies whist ; and at an early hour they dis- 
persed. There was no parade on these social 
occasions. Two or three old sedan chairs were 
in constant activity, though the greater part 
made their exit in clogs and pattens, with a 
footman or waiting-maid carrying a lantern in 
advance; and before midnight, the clank of 
pattens and gleam of lanterns about the quiet 
little place told that the evening party had dis- 
solved. 

Still I did not feel myself altogether so much 
at my ease as I had anticipated, considering the 
smallness of the place. I found it very diflFerent 
from other country places, and that it was not 
so easy to make a dash there. Sinner that I 
was ! the very dignity and decorum of the little 



352 BITCKTHORNE. 

community was rebuking to me, I feared my 
past idleness and folly would rise in judgment 
against me. I stood in awe of the dignitaries 
of the cathedral, whom I saw mingling fami- 
liarly in society. I became nervous on this 
point. The creak of a prebendary's shoes, sound- 
ing from one end of a quiet street to the other, 
was appalling to me ; and the sight of a shovel 
hat was sufficient at any time to check me in 
the midst of my boldest poetical soarings. 

And then the good aunt could not be quiet, 
but would cry me up for a genius, and extol my 
poetry to every one. So long as she confined 
this to the ladies it did well enough, because 

they were able to feel and appreciate poetry of 
the new romantic school. Nothing would con- 
tent the good lady, however, but she must read 
my verses to a prebendary, who had long been 
the undoubted critic of the place. He was a 
thin, delicate old gentleman, of mild, polished 
manners, steeped to the lips in classic lore, and 
not easily put in a heat by any hot-blooded 
poetry of the day. He listened to my most 



BUCKTHORNE. 353 

fervid thoughts and fervid words without a glow; 
shook his head with a smile, and condemned 
them as not being according to Horace, as not 
being legitimate poetry. 

Several old ladies, who had heretofore been 
my admirers, shook their heads at hearing this ; 
they could not think of praising any poetry 
that was not according to Horace; and as to 
any thing illegitimate, it was not to be counte- 
nanced in good society* Thanks to my stars^ 
however, I had youth and novelty on my side : 
so the young ladies persisted in admiring my 
poetry, in despite of Horace and illegitimacy. 

I consoled myself with the good opinion of 
the young ladies, whom I had always found to 
be the best judges of poetry. As to these old 
scholars, said I, they are apt to be chilled by being 
steeped in the cold fountains of the classics. 
Still I felt that I was losing ground, and that it 
was necessary to bring matters to a point. Just 
at this time there was a public ball, attended by 
the best society of the place, and by the gentry 
of the neighbourhood : I took great pains With 

VOL. I. A A 



354 BUCKTHORNE. 

my toilet on the occasion, and I had never looked 
better. I had determined that night to make 
my grand assault on the heart of the young lady, 
to battle it with all my forces, and the next 
morning to demand a surrender in due form. 

I entered the ball-room amidst a buzz and 
flutter, which generally took place among the 
young ladies on my appearance. I was in fine 
spirits ; for to tell the truth, I had exhilarated 
myself by a cheerful glass of wine on the occa- 
sion. I talked, and rattled, and said a thousand 
silly things, slap-dash, with all the confidence 
of a man sure of his auditors, — and every thing 
had its effect. 

In the midst of my triumph I observed a little 
knot gathering together in the upper part of 
the room : by degrees it increased. A tittering 
broke out there, and glances were cast round at 
me, and then there would be fresh tittering. 
Some of the young ladies would hiury away to 
distant parts of the room, and whisper to their 
friends. Wherever they wei;it, there was still this 
tittering and glancing at me. I did not know 



BUCKTHORNE. 355 

what to make of all this. I looked at myself 
from head to foot, and peeped at my back in a 
glass, to see if any thing was odd about my 
person ; any awkward exposure, any whimsical 
tag hanging out : — no — every thing was right— 
I was a perfect picture. I determined that it 
must be some choice saying of mine that was 
bandied about in this knot of merry beauties, 
and I determined to enjoy one of my good things 
in the rebound. I stepped gently, therefore, up 
the room, smiling at every one as I passed, who, 
I must say, all smiled and tittered in return. I 
approached the group, smirking and perking my 
chin, like a man who is full of pleasant feeling, 
and sure of being well received. The cluster of 
little belles opened as I advanced. 

Heavens and earth ! whom should I perceive 
in the midst of them but my early and torment- 
ing flame, the everlasting Sacharissa ! She was 
grown, it is true, into the full beauty of woman- 
hood ; but showed, by the provoking merriment 
of her coimtenance, that she perfectly recollected 



856 BUCKTHORNE. 

me, and the ridiculous flagellations of which she 
had twice been the cause. 

I saw at once the extenninating cloud of 
ridicule that was bursting over me. My crest 
fell. The flame of love went suddenly out in 
iny bosom, or was extinguished by overwhelm- 
ing shame. How I got down the room I know 
not : I fancied every one tittering at me. Just 
ias I reached the door, I caught a glance of my 
mistress and her aunt listening to the whispers 
of Sacharissa, the old lady raising her hands 
and eyes, and the face of the yoimg one 
lighted up, as I imagined, with scorn ineffable. 
I paused to see no more, but made two steps 
from the top of the stairs to the bottom. The 
next morning, before sunrise, I beat a retreat, 
and did not feel the blushes cool from my tingling 
cheeks, until I had lost sight of the old towers 
of the cathedral. 

I now returned to town thoughtful and crest- 
fallen. My money was nearly spent, for I had 
lived freely and without calculation. The dream 



BUCKTHORNE. 357 

of love was over, and the reign of pleasure at an 
end. I determined to retrench while I had yet 
a trifle left ; so selling my equipage and horses 
for half their value, I quietly put the money in 
my pocket, and turned pedestrian. I had not a 
doubt that, with my great expectations, I could 
at any time raise funds, either on usury or by 
borrowing ; but I was principled against both one 
and the other, and resolved, by strict economy, 
to make my slender purse hold out until my 
uncle should give up the ghost, or rather the 
estate. I staid at home, therefore, and read, 
and would have written, but I had already suf- 
fered too much from my poetical productions, 
which had generally involved me in some ri- 
diculous scrape. I gradually acquired a rusty 
look, and had a straitened, money-borrowing air, 
upon which the world began to shy me. I have 
never felt disposed to quarrel with the world for 
its conduct ; it has always used me well. When 
I have been flush and gay, and disposed for 
society, it has caressed me; and when I have 
been pinched and reduced, and wished to bei 



358 BUCKTHORNE. 

alone, why, it has left me alone ; and what more 
could a man desire ? Take my word for it, this 
world is a more obliging world than people ge* 
nerally represent it. 

Well, sir, in the midst of my retrenchment, 
my retirement, and my studiousness, I received 
news that my uncle was dangerously ill. I 
hastened, on the wings of an heir's aflFections, to 
receive his dying breath and his last testament. 
I found him attended by his faithful valet, old 
Iron John; by the woman who occasionally worked 
about the house, and by the foxy-headed boy, 
young Orson, whom I had occasionally hunted 
about the park. Iron John gasped a kind of 
asthmatical salutation as I entered the room, 
and received me with something almost like a 
smile of welcome. The woman sat blubbering 
at the foot of the bed ; and the foxy-headed 
Orson, who had now grown up to be a lubberly 
lout, stood gazing in stupid vacancy at a distance. 

My uncle lay stretched upon his back. — The 
chamber was without fire, or any of the comforts 
of a sick room. The cobwebs flaunted from the 



BUCKTHORNE. 359 

ceiling. The tester was covered with dust, and 
the curtains were tattered. From underneath 
the bed peeped out one end of his strong 
box. Against the wainscot were suspended rusty 
blunderbusses, horse pistols, and a cut and thrust 
sword, with which he had fortified his room to 
defend his life and treasure. He had employed 
no physician during his illness ; and from the 
scanty relics lying on the table, seemed almost to 
have denied to himself the assistance of a cook. 

When I entered the room, he was lying mo- 
tionless ; his eyes fixed and his mouth open : at 
the first look I thought him a corpse. The noise 
of my entrance made him turn his head. At 
the sight of me, a ghastly smile came over his 
face, and his glazing eye gleamed with satis- 
faction. It was the only smile he had ever 
given me, and it went to my heart. " Poor old 
man !" thought I, " why would you force me to 
leave you thus desolate, when I see that my pre- 
sence has the power to cheer you ?" 

" Nephew," said he, after several eflForts, and 



360 BUCKTHOJINE. 

'in a low gasping voice — " I am glad you are 
ccmie. I shall now die with satisfaction. Look," 
said he, raising his withered hand, and pointing — 
" Look in that box on the table ; you will find 
that I have not forgotten you." 

I pressed his hand to my heart, and the tears 
stood in my eyes. I sat down by his bed-side, 
and watched him, but he never spoke again. My 
presence, however, gave him evident satisfac- 
tion; for every now and then, as he looked at 
me, a vague smile would come over his visage, and 
he would feebly point to the sealed box on the 
table. As the day wore away, his life appeared 
to wear away with it. Towards sunset his hand 
sunk on the bed and lay motionless, his eyes 
grew glazed, his mouth remained open, and thus 
he gradually died. . 

. I could not but feel shocked at this absolute 
extinction of my kindred. I dropped a tear of 
real sorrow over this strange old man, who had 
thus reserved his smile of kindness to his death- 
bed; like an evening sun after a gloomy day. 



BUCKTHOBNE, 361 

just shining out to set in darkness. Leaving the 
corpse in charge of the domestics, I retired for 
the night. 

It was a rough night. The winds seemed as 
if singing my uncle's requiem about the man- 
sion, and the blood-hounds howled without as 
if they knew of the death of their old master. 
Iron John almost grudged me the tallow candle 
to bum in my apartment, and light up its dreari- 
ness, so accustomed had he been to starveling 
economy. I could not sleep. The recollection 
of my uncle's dying scene, and the dreary sounds 
about the house, affected my mind. These, how- 
ever, were succeeded by plans for the future, and 
I lay awake the greater part of the night, in- 
dulging the poetical anticipation how soon I 
should make these old walls ring with cheerful 
life, and restore the hospitality of my mother's 
ancestors. 

My uncle's funeral was decent, but private. 
I knew there was nobody that respected his mcr 
mory, and I was determined that none should 

VOL. I. B B 



S62 BUCKTHORNE. 

be summoned to sneer over his funeral, and 
make merry at his grave. He was buried in the 
church of the neighbouring village, though it 
was not the burying-place of his race ; but he 
had expressly enjoined that he should not be 
buried with his family : he had quarrelled with- 
most of them when living, and he carried his 
resentments even into the grave. 

I defrayed the expenses of his funeral out of 
my own purse, that I might have done with the 
undertakers at once, and clear the ill-omened 
birds from the premises. I invited the parson of 
the parish, and the lawyer from the village, to 
attend at the house the next morning, and hear 
the reading of the will. I treated them to an 
excellent breakfast, a profusion that had not beerl 
seen at the house for many a year. As soon as 
the breakfast things were removed, I summoned 
Iron John, the woman, and the boy, for I was 
particular in having every one present and pro- 
ceeding regularly. The box was placed on the 
table — all was silence — I broke the seal— raised 



BUCKTHORNE. 368 

the lid, and beheld — not the will — but my 
accursed poem of Doubting Castle and Giant 
Despair ! 

Could any mortal have conceived that thi9 
old withered man, so taciturn and apparently so 
lost to feeling, could have treasured up for years 
the thoughtless pleasantry of a boy,, to punish 
him with sudi cruel ingenuity ? I now could 
account for his dying smile, the only one he had 
ever given me. He had been a grave man all 
his life ; it was strange that he should die in the 
enjoyment of a joke, and it was hard that that 
joke should be at my expense. 

The lawyer and the parson seemed at a loss 
to comprehend the matter. " Here must be 
some mistake," said the lawyer ; " there is no 
will here." 

" Oh !" said Iron John, creaking forth his 
rusty jaws, " if it is a will you are looking for, 
I believe I can find one." 

He retired with the same singular smile with 
which he had greeted me on my arrival, and 
which I now apprehended boded me no good. 



•e. 



864 BUCKTHORNE. 

In a little while he returned with a will perfect 
at all points, properly signed and sealed, and wit- 
nessed and worded with horrible correctness ; in 
which he left large legacies to Iron John and his 
daughter, and the residue of his fortune to the 
foxy-headed boy ; who, to my utter astonishment, 
was his son by this very woman ; he having 
married her privately, and, as I verily believe, 
for no other purpose than to have an heir, and 
so balk my father and his issue of the inhe- 
ritance. There was one little proviso, in which 
he mentioned, that, having discovered his nephew 
to have a pretty turn for poetry, he presumed 
he had no occasion for wealth ; he recommended 
him, however, to the patronage of his heir, and 
requested that he might have a garret, rent-free, 
in Doubting Castle. 



END OF VOL. I. 



LONDON : 

PniNTEO BY TUOUAS DAVISON, WUITEF AIARS. 










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